A year has passed since his death, but the weight of his memory still lingers, an oppressive presence that refuses to fade. The female lead sits in the quiet solitude of her room, the faint hum of the night outside her window the only sound. Her eyes, red from hours of reading, settle on the last page of his diary.
"To be continued."
The words weren't there before. She was sure of it. She had read this page countless times, the chilling confessions, the twisted philosophy, and the delusions of godhood—all of it. But this? This was new. The ink was still wet, the words still shiny and dark, as if freshly written just moments ago.
Her fingers hovered over the ink, feeling the warmth of it, as though the words had been written by a hand that wasn't hers. She could feel the faintest pulse in the page, like a heartbeat thrumming beneath her fingertips.
Her breath caught, her heart racing, and a chill crept down her spine. She couldn't tear her eyes away. She had to understand. She had to know what it all meant.
She feels a shiver crawling up her spine, but she doesn't look away. She cannot. Not today, of all days. It's the anniversary of his death—the day she thought she had finally closed that chapter of her life. Yet here she is, haunted by his final words.
The room grows colder, the air thick with something unexplainable. She stands, her breath visible in the sudden drop in temperature, and walks toward the open window. The night outside is still, but something feels off—unnaturally still, as if the world is holding its breath.
Then, a soft, haunting whistle drifts into the room from the dark corridor. It's familiar, yet unrecognizable. A lullaby—gentle, but foreboding. Her pulse quickens, and a voice whispers, so softly, it could almost be a figment of her imagination: "Goodnight."
She freezes, her heart hammering in her chest. For a long moment, all she hears is the sound of her own breath and the creaking of the house. Then, without warning, the window slams shut, the sudden force of it causing the room to shake. The light above flickers and goes out, plunging her into darkness.
"मम अस्तित्वं अनन्तं अस्ति। मम उद्देश्यं शाश्वतं अस्ति। अहं जीवनमृत्युः सेवे न स्थितोऽस्मि, यः प्रारम्भः च समाप्तिः च अस्मि। भयस्य कंठे, संशयस्य छायायाम्, अहं शेषं सन्निधिं प्राप्स्यामि। यः देवः मृत्युः न नष्टयति—वह्निर्वर्तते।"
Translation:"My existence is infinite. My purpose eternal. I am not bound by life or death, for I am the beginning and the end. In the echoes of your fear, in the shadows of your doubts, I will remain. Because gods don't perish—they ascend."
Three Years Ago
The grand doors of the mansion creaked as they opened, revealing a vast, dimly lit hallway. A soft hum filled the air—distant, almost imperceptible. The floor beneath her feet was polished to a mirror-like sheen, reflecting her every step. The house felt still, unnervingly so. As if it were holding its breath.
Ava Harris adjusted the strap of her leather bag, the weight of the interview pressing down on her shoulders. She had covered countless stories—exclusives with CEOs, controversial politicians, and famous actors—but none had unsettled her like this one.
Alexander Rhea, the renowned business tycoon and bestselling thriller author, was a man cloaked in mystery. His books, filled with intricate plots and dark twists, had captivated millions. But his personal life? It was like trying to peer through a foggy mirror—fragments of rumors and speculations, but never the full picture.
She stepped further inside, her heels clicking against the marble floor. The mansion was vast, its ceilings stretching impossibly high. Paintings hung on the walls, their subjects frozen in expressions that ranged from serene to unsettling. She could feel their painted eyes following her.
From the shadows at the end of the hall, a man emerged. Tall, poised, and unnervingly calm, Alexander Rhea moved with a quiet confidence that made her breath hitch. His sharp features were perfectly framed by his tailored black suit, and his piercing gray eyes seemed to see through her.
"Ava Harris," he said, his voice smooth yet commanding. "You're right on time."
She nodded, offering a faint smile. "Mr. Rhea, thank you for agreeing to this interview. I know you don't usually entertain the media."
He gestured for her to follow, his movements deliberate and precise. "I make exceptions when the story matters. Come, we'll talk in the study."
The study was just as imposing as the rest of the house—bookshelves lined the walls, filled with leather-bound volumes that exuded age and knowledge. A grand piano stood in one corner, and beside it, on a velvet-covered stand, rested a violin. Its polished wood gleamed in the soft light of the room.
"I see you've noticed my violin," Alexander remarked, his voice suddenly softer. He moved toward it, his fingers grazing the strings lightly. "I've been working on something new—an unfinished symphony, if you will."
Ava's throat tightened. His words, calm and detached, seemed to resonate in the silence of the room, sending a chill down her spine. "Unfinished?" she echoed, her voice almost a whisper. "Are you saying your work never ends?"
He turned toward her with a knowing smile. "Not at all. There's always something more. Something lurking beneath the surface. Much like the stories I write—or the stories I live."
Ava swallowed, her pulse quickening. She could feel the weight of his gaze, like a pressure that demanded an answer. The room felt smaller, the air thicker with each passing second.
"Reality is… subjective," he continued, his voice almost contemplative. "What people perceive, what they feel—it's all a matter of perspective. And my work... well, my work is an exploration of that."
She hesitated, the journalist in her pushing forward despite the unease creeping up her spine. "Do you ever feel that… that things aren't quite in order?" she asked, her curiosity getting the better of her. "Like maybe something is just… off?"
Alexander tilted his head slightly, his eyes never leaving hers. For a moment, it almost felt like the room was holding its breath, suspended in time.
"Everything is in order," he replied, his voice low and firm, leaving no room for argument. "If something is wrong, it must be corrected. But there is nothing wrong here."
The finality of his words hung in the air, heavy and unyielding. Ava felt the sudden urge to leave, to escape the suffocating atmosphere of the mansion. But her instincts as a journalist kept her rooted in place. There was more to uncover here, more beneath the surface of Alexander Rhea's polished exterior.
As she prepared her next question, Alexander's gaze shifted to the violin once more. He plucked a single string, the note resonating through the room, haunting and beautiful.
"Shall we begin?" he said, his voice carrying a subtle edge.
And for the first time in her career, Ava wondered if she had made a mistake walking through those doors.