The West Wing smelled like dust and memories.
Every step we took echoed down the long corridor, each sound swallowed by the heavy silence. The air felt colder, heavier—like this part of the mansion breathed a different kind of grief.
Riyan walked ahead of me, jaw clenched, shoulders tight.
He wasn't just angry.
He was afraid.
Afraid of what we'd find…
or afraid of what I might remember.
A door stood at the very end of the hallway—dark wood, untouched for years, its surface carved with initials that pulled at me strangely.
A.M.
Arjun Malhotra.
My skin prickled.
The faint sound we heard earlier had stopped, replaced by a silence so complete it made my heartbeat sound too loud.
Riyan reached the door, hesitated for the briefest moment, then turned the old brass handle.
The door creaked open.
I held my breath.
---
The room was frozen in time.
A single window covered by sheer curtains.
A neatly made bed with blue sheets.
A desk with pencils still scattered as if he had stepped out for a moment, intending to return.
But he never did.
A cold ache settled in my chest.
Everything felt… young.
Gentle.
Hopeful.
Nothing matched the violent tragedy I had heard about.
I stepped inside slowly, afraid to disturb even the dust.
Riyan didn't move from the doorway.
He stared into the room like entering it would break something inside him.
"Riyan?" I whispered.
His voice was low, rough.
"I haven't come inside since the funeral."
My heart throbbed painfully.
That meant—
this moment wasn't just my first step into the truth.
It was his first step into a wound he had kept stitched shut.
I walked forward carefully, fingers brushing the edge of the desk.
A small notebook lay open.
My breath hitched.
The page was blank… except for one faint sentence written at the top in shaky handwriting.
"She said she never meant it."
The room swayed around me.
Riyan stepped closer, voice stiff.
"He wrote that the night before he—"
He swallowed hard.
"—before the incident."
My fingers trembled as I traced the sentence.
"She said she never meant it."
Me.
He meant me.
I had said something to him.
Something that broke him.
But what?
A sharp sound suddenly echoed from the closet in the corner.
I flinched and grabbed Riyan's arm instinctively.
He stiffened, but didn't pull away.
Someone was inside the room.
His voice dropped to a whisper.
"Stay behind me."
He moved slowly toward the closet, each step measured, controlled.
My pulse raced so loudly I couldn't hear anything else.
When he reached for the handle, my breath stuck in my throat.
He threw the door open.
A gust of cold air rushed past.
The closet was empty.
But something fell from the top shelf—landing at our feet with a soft thud.
A small box.
Riyan froze.
I stared at it, heart pounding.
It was wooden, carved with delicate patterns, and painted faintly with initials:
A + …
The other letter was smudged.
Riyan's hand shook—barely noticeable, but to me, unmistakably real—as he picked up the box.
He opened it slowly.
Inside were:
• A torn hospital wristband
• A small locket
• A folded piece of paper
• A photo
Riyan lifted the photo first.
My breath shattered into pieces.
It was me.
Standing outside my college gate.
Laughing.
Talking to someone whose face wasn't in the frame.
Arjun.
My stomach twisted violently.
Riyan's eyes darkened—not with surprise, but with confirmation.
"This," he whispered, "is why I knew you were lying when you said you didn't remember him."
Tears stung my eyes.
"I'm not lying," I whispered. "I swear to you—I don't remember this. I don't remember him."
He didn't respond.
He didn't need to.
The photo did the speaking.
He picked up the folded paper next—slowly, as if touching it might burn him—and opened it.
His expression changed.
Not anger.
Not grief.
Shock.
His hand shook so hard the paper nearly slipped.
"What is it?" I whispered.
He didn't answer.
He simply turned the paper around for me to see.
My heart stopped.
The note said:
"If something happens to me… it wasn't her fault."
Signed,
Arjun
The room spun violently before my eyes.
My knees buckled.
I grabbed the edge of the desk to stop myself from collapsing.
"He… he protected me," I whispered. "Even when he was—when he was hurting—he protected me."
Riyan's jaw tightened until the muscle jumped.
His voice came out low, trembling with confusion, fury, and something like heartbreak:
"Why would he defend the person who destroyed him?"
A tear slid down my cheek.
"I don't know."
I looked into Riyan's eyes—shining with grief that had nowhere to go—and whispered the question that terrified both of us:
"Riyan… what if I didn't hurt him?"
He stared at me.
Silent.
Conflicted.
Shaken.
"What if," I said softly, stepping toward him, "someone else did?"
A breath caught in his throat.
A shadow flickered through his expression—
fear,
realization,
and the horrifying possibility that everything he believed might be wrong.
Before either of us could speak again, a sudden sound echoed through the hospital wristband in the box—
A faint beep.
Like a device reactivating after years.
Riyan and I stared at each other.
Something inside that wristband had just turned on.
Something that hadn't made a sound in years.
And whatever it was—
It was waking up now.
In our hands.