Rain drummed softly against the hotel window, steady and unhurried — like a clock counting down to something inevitable.
Kaizen and Lyra sat together on the couch.
The room was dim, illuminated only by the flickering glow of the television.
A news anchor's voice filled the silence — calm, practiced, heavy.
"Another tragic murder in South Kolkata.
The victim, Ahiri Dey, aged twenty, was a well-known indie music composer.
The killer left no fingerprints, only a symbol — a spiral mark drawn in red paint near the body.
Police believe it may be connected to the same individual responsible for the death of Simi Manna."
Lyra slowly lowered the remote.
"…That's the same guy," she said quietly. "Isn't it?"
Kaizen didn't answer.
His eyes were locked on the screen — on the photograph of a girl smiling, guitar resting lightly in her hands.
For a moment, the world softened at the edges.
He had seen that smile before.
Not on a screen, Not in a photograph.
Somewhere deeper.
The realization struck him like thunder breaking glass.
The canvas, The seven-foot-tall unfinished painting in his Tokyo apartment — the face he had never been able to finish, never been able to name.
It was her.
Lyra touched his arm.
"Kaizen? What's wrong?"
He blinked, breath steady but shallow.
"That girl," he said. "I've drawn her before."
Lyra frowned.
"As a reference?"
He shook his head.
"No, I never met her."
A pause.
"But her face… it's on my canvas. I drew her months ago."
Lyra's hand tightened around his sleeve.
"You're saying—"
"I don't know what I'm saying yet," Kaizen replied.
"Only that this isn't coincidence."
Later That Day — Ahiri's House
The old neighborhood smelled of rain-soaked soil and rusted memories.
Kaizen and Manajit stood before a small apartment building.
Police tape fluttered weakly across the gate like a tired warning.
A lone constable recognized Manajit — old journalism credentials still carried weight — and allowed them inside briefly.
The apartment was quiet.
The air carried traces of perfume, dust, and unfinished music.
One wall was covered with scattered notes, handwritten lyrics, old cassette tapes taped together like relics.
A piano sat near the window, sheet music still open — the final melody frozen mid-breath.
Kaizen walked slowly, eyes absorbing everything.
On a desk near the corner lay a diary, its pages damp from rain leaking through the ceiling.
The last page was open.
He read silently.
"A stranger with red eyes came into my dreams again.
I don't know who he is.
But he feels… sad."
Kaizen froze.
The words didn't feel written.
They felt remembered.
He turned the page, Blank.
"Kaizen," Manajit said softly. "You okay?"
Kaizen closed the diary carefully.
"Yeah," he replied. "Just… thinking."
But inside, something tightened.
Red eyes, Dreams, Sadness.
Since when did strangers dream of me?
The Graveyard
The cemetery lay only a short walk away.
Rain fell steadily, soaking the stone paths, turning names into blurred echoes.
Kaizen walked ahead, Lyra and Manajit a step behind him, He stopped.
A small gravestone stood quietly among the others.
Ahiri Dey
2012 – 2032
Kaizen crouched and placed a single white flower at its base.
No prayer, No apology, Just presence.
Something about her name, her age — the fact that she had existed at all — tugged at a memory he couldn't reach.
A shiver ran through him.
Lyra watched silently. She didn't interrupt.
She sensed it — the way his stillness wasn't peace, but restraint.
Manajit spoke softly, almost to himself.
"She was only twenty-two…"
Kaizen nodded.
"Yes," he said.
"And somehow… familiar."
Not familiar like déjà vu.
Familiar like destiny misremembered.
He stood slowly, eyes never leaving the gravestone.
No panic, No revelation.
Only a quiet tightening — like threads pulling together beneath the surface.
They walked back toward the car in silence.
Rain tapped against Lyra's umbrella.
Kaizen glanced back once more at the graveyard, the stone already fading into grey.
Deep inside, the threads tightened.
The red thread.
The spiral mark.
The girl on the canvas.
And then — A whisper.
Faint, Familiar, Impossible.
"Long time no see."
Kaizen exhaled slowly.
Rain soaked his coat.
He straightened, steadying himself — not against the weather, but against what he knew was coming.
And without looking back again,
the three of them walked into the grey afternoon,
leaving the dead behind —
for now.
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