"Not every man who returns from the dark
is the same one who left."
The haveli was frozen.
No one moved.
The lantern burned low, its flame shrinking like it wanted to hide from what was coming.
It began with a sound.
Three sharp knocks.
Tok. Tok. Tok.
Every head turned toward the old wooden door.
Priya's camera strap slipped from her wrist. Meghna clutched Diya's arm. Abhay stood first, his jaw tight, eyes fixed on the door.
"No one opens it," he ordered, his voice like iron.
But the knocks came again—louder this time.
Tok. Tok. Tok.
The group held their breath.
Then, a voice.
"...it's me."
Yashpal's voice.
Rohit's eyes went wide. "It's him! It's Yashpal!" He half-rose before Abhay's hand shot out, shoving him back down.
"Wait," Abhay hissed. "Listen."
The voice came again. "Let me in."
It was Yashpal. The timbre, the weight. No mistaking it.
Abhay hesitated only a moment longer, then moved toward the door. He lifted the wooden bar with a groan, the sound slicing through the silence like a scream.
The door creaked open.
And there he was.
Yashpal.
But not the man they remembered.
His face was drenched in blood. It dripped from his hair, streaked his jaw, soaked the collar of his shirt. His hands were red to the wrist, trembling. His eyes were wide, not with rage or pain, but with shock so deep it was almost vacant.
Saanvi gasped. Priya covered her mouth. Meghna staggered back.
"Yashpal…" Diya whispered, her voice breaking.
He tried to speak. His lips moved, cracked, parted. No words came—only a faint rasp, a ghost of sound.
Then, finally—
"It's me."
The group froze.
It was him. The voice was his. Not twisted, not hollow—his.
But the blood. The silence. The emptiness in his eyes.
"What happened to you?" Rohit demanded, his voice shaking. "What the hell happened out there?"
Yashpal's mouth worked soundlessly for a moment. Then he staggered forward, collapsing against the wall.
Meghna crouched beside him but flinched as her hand touched his sleeve—the fabric was soaked, sticky.
"Where's Kabir?" Abhay asked sharply, stepping closer. "Yashpal, look at me. Where's Kabir?"
Yashpal's blood-caked hands rose slowly, trembling, as if he wanted to explain—
But his voice broke.
"I… I… I tried—" He choked on the words, shaking his head violently. "He… he…"
Silence swallowed the rest.
The group stared, hearts pounding, breath caught in their throats.
Every second stretched too long, the unanswered question growing heavier and heavier:
What had happened in the forest?
And was this truly Yashpal standing before them—or something else wearing his voice?
"Sometimes, survival is not a blessing.
It is a curse that clings,
dripping red,
until the truth tears itself free."