Chapter 7 - Chapter 7: The Soldier's Secret

Vikram's phone buzzed again just as monsoon rains eased into drizzly evenings. This time, it was a text from an old contact in Mumbai: "Friend's dad acting strange. Talks war, lost letters. Your ghost stories helped before—can you come?" The words "soldier waits" from last night's breeze echoed in his mind. No coincidence. Priya squeezed his hand over dinner. "Pune to Mumbai's quick, but promise you'll call." Her worry softened him; he kissed her forehead. "Always." Notebook packed, pendant secure, he hit the road at dawn, weaving through traffic toward the city that never slept.The call came from Bandra, an old Parsi neighborhood where bungalows hid behind high walls. Mrs. Irani greeted him at the door, mid-60s, elegant sari trembling slightly. "David's been good till now—retired army, sharp mind. Last week, he started pacing nights, muttering about 'unfinished duty.'" Inside, the house smelled of baking bread and camphor. David sat in the living room, medals pinned to his shirt despite the heat, staring at a faded photo: young man in WWII uniform, smiling beside a well. Vikram's breath caught—similar stonework to Kabra."David uncle," Vikram said gentle, sitting close. "What calls you?" Eyes unfocused, voice shifted—gruff, young: "Letters... promised her. Plague took shipmates, but I ran. Coward." Mrs. Irani gasped. "Daddy never served abroad!" Flash hit: 1940s, British supply ship hit by storm off Mumbai coast. David—not this David, but spirit David—hid love letters from Sulochna-type girl in well-shore grave during plague panic. Vowed return, never did. Guilt chained him, jumping wells like whispers.Air chilled sudden. David's hands clutched chest, breath ragged like drowning. "Buried them... under third stone." Vikram pulled pendant, chanting soft. "Rest now, soldier. Tell us where." Voice sobbed relief: "Bandra Gymkhana graveyard. East wall. Forgive..." Body slumped, eyes clearing. Mrs. Irani hugged crying. "Thank you." Vikram drove straight there—old colonial cemetery, locked but climbable. Monsoon mud sucked boots, but third stone from east wall gleamed wet. Digging careful with hands, he found tin box: yellowed letters, tied red ribbon. Sulochna's handwriting? No—another, Mira, nurse who waited.Back at Irani house, they burned letters in brass lamp, prayers mixing smoke. David's sleep came peaceful first time years. "He was grandpa's cousin," Mrs. Irani explained. "Died young, letters lost." Chain link clear now—soldier tied to Sulochna's well, guilt rippling out. Vikram texted Meera, Rao: "Pattern. Wells connected like veins."Mumbai night hummed alive. Walking Marine Drive alone, waves crashing, Vikram felt watched—not scary, guiding. Pendant pulsed warm. New whisper: child's voice, faint. "Mama cold." Another well? He smiled tired but sure. Priya called: "Home safe?" "Yes. More stories tomorrow." Life balanced now—love, helping, writing. Each freeing lightened chain.Rao called next day. "Beta, it's map. Colonial curses, plague-plague. You're thread pulling." Vikram laughed. "Just listening, panditji." But he sketched: Kabra, Ratnagiri, Bandra—lines spiderwebbing Maharashtra coast. India breathed old sorrows, waiting voices. He wasn't afraid anymore. Ready.Priya met him airport, hug tight. "My ghost hunter." Over cutting chai, he shared soldier's peace. Her eyes shone. "Proud. But come home whole." He nodded, heart full. Road called endless, but anchors held—her, Rao, stories. Whispers grew chorus, not threats. Vikram walked forward, ears open, light ready. Some secrets begged telling. He listened best.