Soft whispers stirred the silence—a distant murmur of voices barely audible, like echoes carried by the wind through endless halls of time.
Aarav's eyelashes fluttered. His vision was veiled in mist. Blurred outlines danced in front of him, unclear and ungraspable. Slowly, he blinked—once, twice—and the haze began to lift. The outlines grew sharper, coalescing into two figures standing over him.
One was a woman, the other a man. They appeared to be in their late forties or early fifties. The woman spoke first, her voice soft yet edged with relief. "Look, he's waking up."
The man nodded, his tone calm but intrigued. "Well, what do we have here?"
Aarav tried to rise from the bed, but his limbs trembled under the effort. The pain surged faintly, dull yet persistent.
"Easy, son," the woman said gently, moving closer. "You're still injured. Your wounds may not be fatal, but they're not minor either. Rest, please."
"Wa... Water," Aarav whispered, his throat dry and his voice weak.
The man and woman moved swiftly. They propped him up gently with pillows, giving his back the support it needed. The woman—her name he would later learn was Kavya—walked quickly to a small wooden table, where a metallic jug and glass sat patiently. She poured water with practiced grace and returned, offering it to him with both hands.
He reached for it, his fingers shaky. Something flickered across his mind—a memory perhaps—but it dissolved before he could grasp it. Ignoring the sudden blur of what appeared to be scorched ground and a battle-worn field, he took the glass and lifted it. Without letting his lips touch the rim, he tilted it and drank, letting the cool liquid pour into his mouth.
After drinking, he passed the glass to the man, who accepted it with a nod.
"Are you alright?" the man asked, his gaze steady. "Can you tell us your name? Where are you from?"
Aarav furrowed his brows. "I… I think… My name is Aarav Verma. But... everything else is blank. I don't remember where I came from, who my parents are... nothing."
The man chuckled lightly, though not mockingly. "Well, if you remembered everything, that would've surprised us."
Aarav's brows pinched further. "What do you mean? I don't understand."
"That's because when we found you," the man began, his voice more serious now, "you were lying unconscious in the desert—inside a deep pit, nearly four feet deep and over ten meters wide."
Kavya added, "You were barely breathing. Your right arm was broken, your clothes soaked in blood. You had no belongings, no ID—nothing."
Aarav sat in stunned silence, not because he was shocked by the details, but because he felt nothing. No fear. No panic. Not even pain. "I don't remember anything. And strangely… I don't even feel where I'm injured. It's like I've lost all sensation."
The man and woman exchanged concerned glances. "You're not shocked by this?" Kavya asked, her tone betraying curiosity.
"No. I don't know why. I feel... disconnected."
Aarav looked around. The room was small, sparsely furnished. A single window, draped with heavy curtains, allowed dim light to seep in. There was no door—just a long curtain hanging in its place. The walls were old, stained by time, and the paint had faded into yellow patches. A dim bulb dangled from the ceiling—perhaps 50 watts, casting a tired glow.
A crude, handcrafted wardrobe stood silently in the corner. On the wall, mounted on iron hooks, was an old sword—its hilt worn, its wood darkened by age.
"Where am I?" Aarav finally asked. "And who are you people?"
The man stepped forward, his posture tall and dignified. "My name is Raghu Singh Rajput. This is my wife, Kavya Singh Rajput. You're in our home, in a village called Karimnagar."
Raghu was a man of impressive presence—about six feet tall, with a sturdy build. His wheat-toned complexion matched his weathered features. He wore a traditional kurta and dhoti, and his thick mustache curled with noble pride. His tone was firm but never harsh, like someone who had led many but had no need to raise his voice.
Kavya, in contrast, radiated a quiet strength. Dressed in a traditional Rajputi ensemble, her fair skin and poised expression made her seem both regal and maternal. She stood about five feet five inches tall, and her eyes, though kind, held many secrets.
The room, simple as it was, told stories of generations past. The sword on the wall wasn't just decoration. It was a symbol of something greater.
And yet, something was missing.
Aarav turned his gaze to the shelf. "There's no clock in here."
Raghu smiled faintly. "We don't measure time the way cities do. Here, life tells us when to rise, when to rest."
The hours passed slowly. Outside, a soft breeze moved the curtain. Aarav remained in bed, his mind searching the void for memories that refused to surface. Names, places, faces—none came.
The air was thick with the earthy scent of millet flour and burning firewood. Night had gently cloaked the Singh Rajput household, and the humble, oil-lit interior glowed softly under the flicker of lanterns.
Aarav, Raghu, and Kavya had gathered in the main hall—what they fondly called the dining room. But unlike modern homes adorned with grand dining tables and polished chairs, this space breathed tradition. A straw mat, or chatai, was spread across the cool floor. This was where meals were shared, stories told, and silence comfortably lingered between kin.
Raghu sat cross-legged near the small table fan that whirred quietly beside him, its breeze barely slicing the warmth of the summer night. Aarav sat across from him, still a bit stiff from his recovery but visibly better than the days prior.
Kavya, graceful even in simplicity, was near the earthen stove in the corner. The soft crackle of firewood echoed in the quiet, blending with the sizzle of freshly kneaded roti puffing on the iron griddle. The aroma was nostalgic, carrying hints of rustic roots and heartfelt care.
Tonight's meal was humble yet rich with flavor: golden wheat rotis, sautéed teet sagari—a rare desert vegetable known for its bitter notes turned savory—and a fiery chutney of roasted garlic and red chili. In the sweet bowl lay powdered jaggery, soft and golden, waiting to be savored at the end of the meal.
As Kavya turned a roti with skilled fingers, Raghu broke the quiet with a thoughtful tone. "Your wounds have healed faster than I ever expected," he said, looking at Aarav with a quiet curiosity. "Surprisingly fast."
Aarav blinked slowly, the heat from the meal mingling with the confusion still clouding his thoughts. "I don't know what to make of it," he admitted. "I feel stronger each day, but... I don't remember feeling weak either."
Raghu chuckled lightly, tearing a piece of roti and dipping it in the chutney. "When we found you, your condition was terrible. I thought you'd take months to recover. Four, at the very least. But here you are, walking, talking, eating like nothing happened."
Aarav's eyes shifted toward the flickering flame near Kavya. "When did you find me?" he asked casually, though a hidden tension laced his voice.
"Ten days ago," Raghu replied, licking a bit of chutney from his fingers. "You were unconscious and barely breathing. Kavya insisted we bring you home."
Aarav's head lifted slowly, the news weighing heavy on his thoughts. "Ten days... I've been here that long?" he echoed, surprise sharpening his tone.
"Not only here, but very much alive," Kavya added, her voice light and reassuring as she flipped another roti onto a clay plate. "When we found you in the trench, you were clutching something tightly. A locket. We assumed it must be precious to you. Looked old... ancestral. We've kept it safe. Thought we'd return it once you woke up."
Her smile was a gentle reassurance, but the memory of the locket stirred something deep within Aarav—a sensation more than a thought, a flicker of something forgotten.
"Do you... still have it?" he asked, his voice barely more than a whisper.
Raghu nodded. "After dinner. You need rest tonight. In the morning, I'll bring it to you."
The silence that followed wasn't empty. It was shared—like breath in a temple, reverent and sacred. Kavya served each plate with practiced hands, placing rotis, vegetables, chutney, and a small bowl of jaggery in front of both men. She then joined them, her posture poised and calm.
"Food here is simple," she said, handing Aarav a steel tumbler filled with water. "But it has soul. Just like this home."
Aarav took a bite. The flavors burst to life—spicy, salty, smoky, and sweet, a contrast of emotions in every morsel. The chutney stung, but the jaggery soothed. The bitterness of the teet sagari dissolved into something oddly addictive.
"You're an excellent cook," Aarav offered, genuinely impressed.
Kavya laughed softly. "Survival makes us all masters of something."
Raghu joined in, the laughter echoing through the quiet house like a memory reborn. "Don't praise her too much. She'll make you cook tomorrow."
The lighthearted exchange brought a smile to Aarav's face—perhaps his first since waking up in the unfamiliar bed days ago. But beneath the surface of warmth and laughter, questions loomed large.
Who was he?
Why had he been found in such a state?
And what secrets did the locket hold?
As dinner concluded and the plates were cleared, Raghu stood up and stretched. "You've done well to recover, Aarav. That's no small feat. But healing the body is only half the battle. The mind… the past… that takes longer."
Aarav nodded. "I'm ready to remember. Whatever it is."
Kavya's gaze softened, and she placed a folded blanket in his lap. "Sleep well tonight. The answers will come. They always do... eventually."
The house slowly settled into silence as the lanterns dimmed. Outside, a lone owl called into the night. Inside, Aarav lay on the mat near the fan, the breeze carrying hints of ash and spice. His thoughts drifted like smoke—shapeless, elusive, impossible to grasp.
But one thing lingered.
The locket.
What did it mean? Why had he clutched it even in unconsciousness?
And why, every time he closed his eyes, did a pair of eyes stare back at him through the darkness—eyes filled with fire, grief, and an unspoken promise?
Tomorrow, the locket would be returned.
And with it, maybe, a key to the truth.
In the heart of Karimnagar, a grand ancestral house stood with pride. Its façade bore the distinct touch of traditional handicraft design, each curve and engraving whispering tales of the past. A modest garden stretched before the structure, its hedges trimmed with care, and a strong iron gate guarded its entrance. Two uniformed men stood at attention near the gate, vigilant and composed, clearly caretakers or guards ensuring the household's privacy remained intact.
Inside, the living room held an air of old-world elegance. Bamboo-crafted chairs surrounded a sturdy wooden table that bore a soft cotton mattress atop it—likely for comfort during long discussions or casual lounging. The atmosphere was calm but alert, as though the house itself anticipated something.
Seated on one of the bamboo chairs was a stern-faced man in a crisp night robe. His composure, however, masked his commanding aura. This was Naik Vijay Singh—a decorated senior officer in the Rajya Sena, known for his quick wit and no-nonsense demeanor.
The silence of the hour was disrupted by the sound of approaching boots. Dand Nayak, a lower-ranking but dedicated officer, stepped briskly into the room. His uniform was still dusty from the desert winds, and his expression carried the weight of urgency.
Naik Vijay didn't rise. Instead, his eyes narrowed slightly.
"Well, Dand Nayak, I suppose you haven't come at this late hour just to ask about my health," Vijay remarked dryly, the corner of his mouth twitching into a faint smirk.
Dand Nayak gave a quick nod, his voice steady but serious. "Sir, one of our patrols reported something... unusual while overseeing the desert border. The team, mounted on camels, spotted an anomaly in the sands."
Naik Vijay leaned slightly forward, his smirk vanishing. "Go on. Don't keep me waiting."
"They discovered a large pit, sir. Four feet deep and almost ten meters wide. Fresh traces of blood were found near the edges."
Vijay's posture changed instantly. He stood up, his robe flowing slightly with the motion, his expression now sharpened with concern. "A pit that size? Blood in the middle of the desert? That's no ordinary incident. Why didn't you lead with that?"
Dand Nayak stood at attention, unfazed. "Because I knew you'd want every detail before reacting. And I assumed... you'd prefer to investigate personally."
Naik Vijay let out a low exhale. His mind was already calculating possibilities. "You're right. This requires personal attention. Prepare my field uniform and alert the desert squad. We leave at dawn."
He glanced once more toward the gate, beyond which the desert stretched into mystery.
"Whatever happened in that pit... I want to know everything."
The conversation ended not with another word, but with the unspoken acknowledgment that something was beginning—something that would disturb more than just the sands of the desert.