The living room smelled like cardamom and old wood.
Rahul sat on the edge of a worn sofa, hands resting on his knees. Perfectly still. The cushion beneath him sagged in the middle—years of use had compressed the foam into something that no longer offered comfort, just tired accommodation.
Mohan sat across from him in a mismatched armchair. Wire-frame glasses catching the lamplight. Messenger bag at his feet. He'd taken off his shoes at the door, left them neatly by the entrance the way he always did.
The way Rahul remembered.
Manish moved between them carrying a tray—three cups of tea, a small plate of biscuits no one would touch. He set it on the low table between the sofa and armchair, then settled into the chair beside Mohan.
"So," Manish said, picking up his cup. "How's the tutoring going?"
Mohan smiled. Tired, but genuine. "Busy. More students this semester than last. Everyone suddenly wants to learn journalism." He took a sip of tea. "Though half of them think it's just talking to people and writing opinions."
"Isn't it?" Manish's tone was light. Teasing.
"If only." Mohan set his cup down. "The city's changed too. More news outlets. More competition. Everyone's chasing the same stories."
"Progress," Manish said. "Or something like it."
Mohan nodded slowly. His eyes drifted to Rahul. Curious. Polite. "Manish mentioned you're working at a paper in Bhopal?"
Rahul's throat tightened. "Yes."
"Daily Truth, right?"
"Right."
"How long have you been there?"
"Few months."
Mohan leaned forward slightly. "What kind of work are they giving you?"
"Local corruption. Municipal contracts. Small stories."
"Everyone starts there." Mohan's smile returned. "I spent two years covering drainage projects before anyone trusted me with real investigations."
Rahul nodded. His hands pressed harder against his knees.
He wanted to say: I know. You told me that story three years ago over chai. You said patience was the hardest skill to learn.
Instead, he said nothing.
Manish picked up a biscuit. Didn't eat it. Just turned it over in his fingers. "Rajesh is working on something more substantial now. Long-form piece. Needs some background research."
"Oh?" Mohan's interest sharpened. "On what?"
Manish glanced at Rahul. A beat. Then: "Cases where media attention shifted public perception. Wrongful accusations. How narratives change."
The room went quieter.
Not silent. Just... heavier.
Mohan's smile faded. He picked up his tea again. Stared into it. "That's timely."
"Is it?"
"You know it is." Mohan's voice dropped lower. "After what happened with Ananya Sharma... everyone's talking about narratives now."
Rahul's chest tightened.
His fingernails dug into his palms.
Manish's expression didn't change. "You knew her."
"We were classmates." Mohan set his cup down carefully. "She was brilliant. Passionate about criminal psychology. Wanted to understand why people hurt each other." He paused. Looked away. "She never would have done what they said she did."
"The evidence—"
"I don't care about the evidence." Mohan's voice stayed quiet, but something sharper entered it. "I knew her. She couldn't hurt anyone. Not like that."
Rahul's throat closed completely.
He wanted to reach across the table. Wanted to grab Mohan's shoulder. Wanted to say: I'm here. I'm right here. I didn't do it either.
But his hands stayed on his knees.
Locked. Frozen.
Mohan rubbed his face. Took off his glasses. Cleaned them on his shirt. "And Rahul... the boyfriend. They turned him into a monster overnight." He put his glasses back on. "I knew him too. Not well, but enough. He wasn't violent. He wasn't capable of..."
He trailed off.
The ceiling fan clicked overhead.
Outside, a scooter passed. Faded.
"You think he's innocent," Manish said quietly.
"I think the truth is more complicated than anyone wants to admit." Mohan looked at Manish directly. "And I think someone very powerful wanted them both erased."
Rahul's pulse hammered in his ears.
Mohan believed him.
Mohan believed him.
And he had no idea Rahul was sitting three feet away.
The weight of that settled into Rahul's chest like stones.
Manish refilled the tea. No one had finished their first cup, but he did it anyway. Gave his hands something to do.
"What if," Manish said slowly, carefully, "there was a way to reopen the conversation?"
Mohan looked up. "What do you mean?"
"Public pressure. Not through official channels—those are controlled. But through media." Manish gestured toward Rahul. "Rajesh is planning a long-form piece. Something that examines the case from multiple angles. Questions the narrative without making accusations."
"That's dangerous," Mohan said immediately.
"Yes."
"People died. Powerful people wanted them dead. You think they'll let some junior reporter stir that up again?"
"Maybe not." Manish's voice stayed calm. Strategic. "But truth has a way of leaking sideways. Not head-on. You don't knock down the wall. You find the cracks."
Mohan was quiet for a long moment.
Then: "What do you need?"
"Context. Background. People who knew Ananya." Manish paused. "People who knew Rahul."
Mohan's jaw tightened. He stared at the table. At his tea. At nothing.
Finally: "I'll help."
"You're sure?"
"She deserves better than being remembered as a monster." Mohan looked at Rahul—Rajesh—directly. "And so does he."
Rahul's throat burned.
He nodded once. Slowly.
Mohan stood. "I should go. It's getting late." He picked up his bag. Slung it over his shoulder. "When do you want to start?"
"Tomorrow," Manish said. "Come by in the morning. We'll talk more then."
"Alright." Mohan moved toward the door. Stopped. Hand on the handle. Then turned back.
"There's someone else," he said quietly.
Manish looked up. "Who?"
"Ananya's roommate. From her final year." Mohan shifted his bag on his shoulder. "They shared a flat near the university. Small place. Two bedrooms."
Rahul's pulse quickened.
"What was her name?" Manish asked.
"I don't remember." Mohan frowned, thinking. "She kept to herself mostly. Quiet. Cautious. The kind of person who noticed things but didn't talk much."
"Were they close?"
"Not really." Mohan shook his head. "Ananya mentioned her a few times. Said she was... observant. Like she was always watching, always listening. But they weren't friends. Just two people sharing rent."
Manish leaned forward slightly. "Do you know where she is now?"
"No idea. After everything happened, she disappeared. Moved out. No one heard from her again." Mohan's expression darkened. "Can't blame her. Being associated with that case... it destroys people."
The room went quiet.
Rahul's mind was racing. A roommate. Someone who lived with Ananya. Someone who saw her daily routine. Thursday afternoons. Weekend disappearances. The gaps.
"If I find her," Manish said carefully, "would it be worth talking to her?"
Mohan considered this. "Maybe. If she'll talk at all." He pulled the door open. "But be careful. If she's stayed hidden this long, there's a reason."
"Understood."
Mohan looked back at Rahul one last time. "Good luck with the article. If you do it right... you might actually change something."
Rahul's voice came out barely above a whisper. "Thank you."
Mohan smiled. Small. Sad. "Don't thank me yet."
He left.
The door clicked shut behind him.
Rahul sat frozen on the sofa.
Manish stood by the window. Watched Mohan's silhouette disappear down the street.
Neither of them spoke.
The ceiling fan kept clicking.
Rahul's hands were still pressed against his knees.
Still locked.
Still frozen.
But inside, everything was screaming.
Manish turned from the window. "A roommate."
"Yes." Rahul's voice came out hoarse.
"She would know."
"Possibly." Manish's expression was unreadable. "But finding her won't be easy. And even if we do..."
"She might not talk."
"She might not talk," Manish confirmed. "Or she might be too afraid."
Rahul's jaw tightened. "We have to try."
Manish studied him for a long moment. Then nodded. "We will. But not tonight. Tonight, you need to rest."
"I can't—"
"You will." Manish's tone was gentle but firm. "Tomorrow, we start at the university. Archives first. Student records. We find her name. Then we find her."
Rahul wanted to argue.
Didn't.
Just nodded.
Manish gestured toward the hallway. "Go. Sleep if you can."
Rahul moved toward his room. The guest room was dark when he closed the door behind him. He didn't turn on the light. Just stood there, back pressed against the wood.
His chest was tight.
Too tight.
He pressed his palms flat against the door. Felt the solid weight of it. Real. Present.
Exhaled.
Long. Shaky. Uncontrolled.
His knees buckled slightly. He caught himself. Slid down until he was sitting on the floor, back still against the door.
Mohan believed him.
The thought kept repeating. Over and over.
Mohan believed him. And he had no idea.
Rahul's hands curled into fists.
He wanted to cry.
Wanted to scream.
Wanted to run back out there and tell Mohan everything—I'm here, I'm alive, I didn't do it, please help me.
But he couldn't.
Because the moment Mohan knew, the danger would follow.
The way it had followed Soma.
The way it would follow anyone who got too close.
Rahul tilted his head back. Stared at the ceiling he couldn't see in the darkness.
Five days.
That's all he had. Maybe less.
Devaraj's leave approval wouldn't last forever. Antony's suspicion wouldn't stay quiet forever. The man with the knife wouldn't wait forever.
Five days to find the roommate.
Five days to piece together Ananya's hidden life.
Five days to find proof that someone else had destroyed them both.
His breath steadied. Slowly. Deliberately.
This was his only path.
Not safety. Not certainty.
Just forward.
Into the gaps Ananya had left behind.
Into the truth he'd been too blind to see.
Rahul stood. Moved to the bed. Lay down fully clothed.
Stared at the dark ceiling.
Sleep wouldn't come.
But he stayed still anyway.
Waiting for morning.
Waiting for the archives.
Waiting for a name.