Chapter 8 - Chapter 8: The Child's Lullaby

Vikram leaned against the balcony rail of his Pune flat, monsoon finally breaking into clear nights. Priya slept inside, her breathing steady, a comfort after Mumbai's chaos. The soldier's letters still smelled of smoke in his memory, their words of lost love hitting close—promises unkept, years of regret. He'd posted the story online already, "ShadowTales" fans flooding comments: "Felt the sadness." "More like this!" Writing healed as much as helping did. But that child's whisper from Marine Drive lingered, soft and needy: Mama cold. Another link in the chain, pulling gentle but firm.Morning brought a call from Rao, voice weaker but excited. "Beta, the map—you're right. Old wells from plague times, connected by underground rivers. Colonial mess left spirits tangled." He coughed, then added, "Child's voice? Check old orphanage sites near rivers. Patterns matter." Vikram thanked him, heart heavy—Rao sounded frail. Priya made aloo parathas, kissing him goodbye. "Call if it's bad. I worry." Her trust strengthened him; he wasn't alone anymore.Drive took him to Khadakwasla, Pune's lake area, where British built an orphanage in 1890s for plague orphans. Locals knew whispers—kids crying nights near the old pump house by river. Vikram arrived midday, sun hot, but air turned cool near the overgrown lot. A rusted sign hung crooked: St. Mary's Home for Children. Weeds choked paths; broken windows stared like empty eyes. An old caretaker, hunched and kind, let him in. "Heard cries myself," he muttered. "Kids gone eighty years, but voices stay."Inside, dust swirled lazy. Vikram's pendant warmed, guiding to basement stairs slick with damp. Flashlight cut shadows: stone walls, small cots decayed to splinters. In corner, a tiny well—hand-dug, for rainwater maybe. Water gleamed black. "Little one?" he called soft. Silence, then splash. A giggle bubbled up, then sob. Mama cold. Face appeared—girl no older than six, braids wet, dress patched. Eyes huge, trusting. "Play?" she asked, voice small.Vikram knelt, heart aching. "What's your name, beta?" Memories flooded—not painful like before, but sweet-sad: play in yard, mama's lullaby, then fever, quarantine, pushed into well when space ran out. "Lila," she whispered. "They said sleep. Cold." Caretaker upstairs gasped—knew the name. "Last plague girl. Body never found." Vikram chanted Rao's prayer, splashing Ganga jal. "Mama waits warm. Go to her." Lila smiled bright. "Sing now?" He hummed the lullaby she taught—simple tune about stars and home.Shadows danced gentle; water bubbled soft. Lila waved tiny hand. "Thank you, uncle." She sank peaceful, well sealing with faint light. Upstairs, caretaker teared up. "Quiet first time years." Vikram hugged him brief. "Tell her story. Keeps her free."Back home, Priya listened wide-eyed. "You're changing lives." He pulled her close. "We are." Notebook filled: Lila's tale, fifth dot on map. Rao called: "Good, beta. But source well exists—heart of chain. Find it, end all." Health worried Vikram; Rao dodged questions. That night, pendant pulsed new whisper—woman's voice, urgent: Hurry. Time short. Lila's peace bought days, but chain tightened.Life wove fuller: Priya planning trips, stories gaining fans, calls steady. But purpose deepened. Khadakwasla showed pattern—children, soldiers, lovers, all tied to one root curse. Vikram traced map by lamplight: rivers converging near Mumbai sea. Heart well called faint, ancient. He wasn't scared. Ready, with love beside him. Whispers built chorus now—thanks, not pleas. Road curved ahead, but light guided true. Some songs needed singing. His voice grew stronger