I stopped going to college.
The days blurred into nights, and the nights into something worse. Rain still fell outside my manison window, but it no longer brought memories of warm cafés or stolen kisses. Now, every drop felt like a drumbeat counting down to something I couldn't name.
The world moved on.
The media reported Krithi's death as an unfortunate incident. A tragic case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. "University Student Dies in Suspected Robbery Gone Wrong."
But I knew better.
This wasn't random.
This was targeted.
The pain festered inside me like rot. Krithi wasn't just a girl I dated. She was the girl I loved for four years. Four silent, helpless years of loving her from afar before I finally found the courage to confess on the last day of university.
And the universe rewarded that courage with a bullet.
I couldn't sit still anymore.
One sleepless night, I stared at the blood-stained corner of the last page she ever touched and picked up the phone.
I dialed one number.
"Dad. I wanna see you."
That was all I said.
He didn't ask why.
The next morning, a sleek private jet landed on the outskirts of Cambridge. My father—sharp suit, colder eyes—stepped down the metal stairs as though descending from Olympus itself. I hadn't seen him in months.
We sat in silence for a long time in my apartment. Then, I handed him the notes. My mother's journal. The one that bled secrets.
He read a few pages, his brow tightening.
Then I looked him dead in the eye.
"Dad... how did Mom really die?"
He looked up, startled.
"Car crash. You know that."
"Did you see her? Like, her face?"
A long pause. His jaw twitched.
"No. Her body was badly damaged. The car was crushed. We identified her by the platinum ring she always wore... her clothes... her watch."
My heart dropped.
Her face was unrecognizable.
Her body... unconfirmed.
All they had was jewelry. Fabric. Memory.
And I remembered that journal.
Its secrets.
Its handwriting.
It didn't match.
Something inside me screamed.
I packed the notes. Dug out old homework—essays my mother used to write for me in primary school. Birthday cards. Her Christmas recipes scribbled on stained parchment. I took them to a handwriting expert near the university, someone who had worked with the police on forgery cases.
Three days later, I got the report.
No match.
The woman who wrote the journal wasn't my mother.
Then who the hell was she?
The mansion. The experiments. The note left after Krithi's death. "You should have burned the journal." It all started to spin like a tornado, pulling everything into its violent eye.
I couldn't stay in Cambridge anymore. The answers weren't here.
They were in Berlin.
I called Ross.
He didn't ask questions. Just packed his bag and followed.
Within hours, we were on a flight. The jet soared through storm clouds as if challenging the heavens themselves. Below us, Europe glittered in fragmented lights. Above, only darkness.
Ross leaned back, staring at me. "Dev… you sure you're ready for what we'll find there?"
I didn't answer.
Because I wasn't.
But I needed to know.
Who was the woman in the crash?
Who was the woman who raised me?
And more terrifyingly—
Where was my real mother?
The jet began its descent into Berlin. The city came into view—black rooftops slick with rain, and far below, at the edge of the city, a single light still burned in the mansion.
We were going back to where it all began.
But this time... the ghosts were waiting.
And they weren't hiding anymore.