The thud came again.
Louder this time.
Heavier.
Like someone had dropped something—or someone.
Riyan's entire body went tense.
He grabbed my wrist gently but firmly.
"Behind me," he repeated, voice low, urgent.
I nodded, my heartbeat racing against my ribs.
We moved quickly through the hallway, the sound of our footsteps echoing against the marble floor. Every shadow looked suspicious. Every corner felt alive.
The mansion seemed to hold its breath.
When we reached the end of the main corridor, Riyan froze.
Because the door to the West Wing—
the one that was always locked,
always cold,
always untouched—
was slightly open.
Just an inch.
But enough.
My stomach twisted.
"Someone's inside," I whispered.
Riyan didn't respond.
He just pushed the door open fully.
The air inside was colder than earlier, as if someone had sucked the warmth out of it.
Dust floated softly from the ceiling, disturbed by movement that shouldn't have been there.
We stepped inside.
Nothing looked out of place at first.
No footprints.
No broken items.
No signs of a struggle.
But the silence felt wrong—
like the calm after a storm rather than the calm before.
Riyan motioned me to stay back as he walked deeper.
My palms grew damp.
We approached Arjun's room slowly.
The door was closed.
Riyan took a deep breath and pushed it open.
The room was… normal.
Untouched.
Silent.
But something was different.
Something small.
Something sharp.
Something new.
The music box.
It was sitting in the center of Arjun's bed.
Closed.
Perfectly aligned.
Placed deliberately.
Riyan stiffened.
"Aarvi…" he whispered.
"This box wasn't here before."
My breath caught as I moved closer.
The box was familiar.
Not because I had seen it before…
but because it matched the same carvings on the wooden box that held Arjun's wristband.
Same pattern.
Same style.
Same maker.
This was his.
But why was it moved?
Riyan reached out and touched the lid—
and the moment he did, a soft click sounded.
The lid opened on its own.
Inside was something that made goosebumps rise across my skin.
A folded note.
Paper old enough to have yellowed at the edges.
Riyan didn't touch it immediately.
He stared at it, jaw tightening, as if afraid of what he might find.
"Do you want me to open it?" I asked softly.
He hesitated—
then nodded.
My hands trembled as I reached inside.
The paper was fragile, almost brittle, as I unfolded it carefully.
A short message written in hurried handwriting appeared.
Just three words.
Three words that drained the blood from my face.
"HE WAS WATCHING."
I stared at the paper.
Riyan stared at me.
"Watching?" he whispered. "Who?"
Before either of us could make sense of the message—
A gust of wind blew through the room.
The window—
which had been shut
and locked
earlier—
was now half-open.
Curtains fluttered violently.
Riyan rushed to it.
The lock was broken.
Someone had been here.
Recently.
Minutes ago.
He leaned out the window, eyes scanning the dark grounds below.
But the night swallowed every trace of movement.
He pulled back, rage simmering beneath his skin.
"They're playing with us," he muttered. "Leaving clues… breaking locks… walking into my brother's room like it's theirs."
My fingers tightened around the note.
"Riyan," I whispered shakily, "this message… do you think Arjun wrote it?"
He shook his head slowly.
"No."
His voice was low, dark.
"This handwriting is not his."
A chill ran down my spine.
"Then who—?"
"Someone who knows the truth," Riyan said.
"Someone who wants us to see pieces of it."
"But why?" I whispered.
He looked down at the note in my hand.
HE WAS WATCHING.
His jaw tightened.
"Because someone was watching Arjun before he died," Riyan said quietly.
"And they're still watching us now."
I swallowed hard, fear sinking deep into my bones.
"Riyan… who could it be?"
He didn't answer at first.
Instead, he stepped closer to me, placing a steady hand on my arm.
"For now, there is only one thing I know," he said, voice resolute.
"What?"
His eyes burned with something fierce and protective.
"You're not leaving my side anymore."
My breath caught.
Because he didn't say it out of control.
He said it out of fear.
Fear of losing someone again.
A sound echoed faintly from the hallway.
Not loud.
Not aggressive.
But clear enough to freeze us both.
A door closing.
Soft.
Quiet.
Deliberate.
Riyan's grip on my arm tightened.
Whoever had been watching Arjun—
was still inside the mansion.