The police jeep pulled up in front of a small yellow house. A metal nameplate by the gate read: Mr. and Mrs. Bhattacharya. A modest garden of marigolds and hibiscus swayed gently in the morning breeze.
"This is Sanchari Bhattacharya's house," Inspector Ratan said as he stepped out.
The Masked Detective followed him silently, hands tucked into the deep pockets of her long blue coat. Her black boots clicked softly against the stone path.
A woman opened the door slowly. Her face was pale, eyes red and sunken from crying.
"She's Suchismita Bhattacharya," Ratan whispered. "Sanchari's mother. Her husband died of cardiac arrest last year."
"Namaste… ভেতরে আসুন," Suchismita said softly, stepping aside.
Inside, the house was still and dim. On the wall, a photo of Sanchari smiled brightly—a garland of fresh jasmine hung over the frame. A schoolbag sat untouched on the table, as if its owner might return at any moment.
"May I ask a few questions?" the Masked Detective said gently.
Suchismita nodded.
"When did you last see Sanchari?"
"Yesterday morning. She left for school… and never came back."
"Was she anxious? Acting different? Did she mention anyone new—maybe a classmate, or an adult?"
"No," Suchismita whispered. "She was cheerful. Just like every day."
The Detective paused. "Any signs of bruises? Unusual behavior? Did she ever complain about school?"
Suchismita hesitated. Then:
"She didn't complain, but… I noticed her hair was often messy. And there were bruises on her arm a few times. I thought maybe from games or falling… I didn't ask."
The Detective's eyes wandered the room and landed on a notebook resting by the window.
"May I take a look?"
Suchismita nodded.
She flipped through pages filled with poems, sketches, and scribbles—until she paused on a curious image.
A five-petaled flower.
And beside it, a small triangle.
"Did she draw this often?"
"Yes. She once said… it came from her dreams."
The Detective closed the book with care.
"Thank you. That's all for now."
As she rose, Suchismita suddenly gripped her hand—fingers trembling.
"Please… find my daughter."
The Masked Detective met her eyes.
"I'll try," she said quietly.
---
Their next stop was a crumbling home with peeling yellow paint and a creaky iron gate. The nameplate read: Mukherjee Nivas.
"This is Sagarika Mukherjee's house," Ratan said as they walked up.
An elderly couple opened the door—Mr. Prabir Mukherjee, thin, frail, with large glasses and a cane, and Mrs. Gauri Mukherjee, in a faded green saree.
"Sagarika's parents work abroad," Gauri said. "She's been with us since she was five."
Their story mirrored the first.
Sagarika left for school that morning—never returned.
No arguments. No suspicious calls.
Just... silence.
They handed over the parents' contact number, faces lined with grief.
---
The final house belonged to Sagnika Dey.
Her parents—Mr. Subhankar Dey, a bank employee, and Mrs. Lipika Dey, a schoolteacher—welcomed them into their neatly kept flat.
"She was happy," Lipika said, clutching a handkerchief. "No complaints, no signs of trouble."
"No messages? Changes in behavior?" the Detective asked.
"Nothing at all," Subhankar replied, adjusting his tie.