The London rain drummed steadily against the windows of University College London's main library, creating a soothing rhythm that normally would have lulled Shreya into a peaceful study session. But today was different. The twenty-one-year-old Indian student sat at her usual spot, her laptop screen reflecting in her wire-rimmed glasses, displaying yet another rejected project proposal.
"Not innovative enough," she muttered, reading the feedback from her professor. Her fingers drummed against the worn wooden table, matching the rhythm of the rain outside. The clock on the wall read 7:30 PM, and the library was nearly empty, save for a few dedicated students scattered among the towering shelves.
Professor Matthews' words echoed in her mind: "Your final year project needs to be exceptional, Ms. Sharma. Something that truly sets you apart."
Shreya closed her laptop with a soft thud and leaned back in her chair. The scholarship that had brought her from Patna to London was prestigious, but it came with high expectations. Her phone buzzed with a WhatsApp message from home.
"Beta, how are you?" her mother's message read, accompanied by a string of heart emojis. "Your father and Rohan miss you. Did you eat properly today?"
A smile tugged at her lips as she typed back: "Yes, Maa. All good. Just working on my project."
"Don't stay up too late," came the swift reply. "Take care of yourself."
Shreya pocketed her phone and stood up, stretching her stiff muscles. The library's old architecture loomed around her, its Victorian grandeur both intimidating and inspiring. As she gathered her things, a thought struck her – she hadn't explored the library's special collections section yet.
"Excuse me," she approached the elderly librarian at the desk. "Is the rare books section still open?"
The librarian, Mrs. Thompson, peered at her over half-moon spectacles. "It closes in thirty minutes, dear. Do you have your student ID?"
After showing her credentials, Shreya descended the narrow staircase to the basement level. The temperature dropped noticeably, and the air carried the distinct smell of old paper and leather. Motion-activated lights flickered to life as she walked through the rows of preserved texts.
"Looking for something specific?" A voice startled her. A young man with dark-rimmed glasses emerged from between the shelves, wearing a library staff badge that read 'James Wilson.'
"Not really," Shreya admitted. "Just hoping for inspiration, I suppose. Final year project blues."
James nodded sympathetically. "Sometimes the best ideas find you when you're not looking. Any particular subject area?"
"Cultural anthropology and folklore. I want to explore something that bridges my Indian heritage with contemporary research methods."
"Interesting," James disappeared behind a shelf and returned moments later with a large, leather-bound volume. "This just came in last week from a private collection. Haven't even catalogued it yet."
The book was heavy in Shreya's hands, its cover worn but elegant. There was no title on the spine, just intricate patterns that seemed to shift in the dim light. When she opened it, a musty scent wafted up, and she found pages filled with both English and what appeared to be Sanskrit text.
"What is this?" she asked, carefully turning the brittle pages.
"Part of the Hodgson collection. Brian Houghton Hodgson was a British civil servant in Nepal and India during the 1800s. He collected various manuscripts and texts about local legends and folklore."
Shreya's eyes widened as she came across a particularly detailed illustration – a fearsome figure with multiple arms, surrounded by ancient symbols. The name beneath it caught her eye: "Mrit?"
"Careful with that page," James warned. "It's quite fragile. The library closes in ten minutes, but you can come back tomorrow if you'd like to look at it properly."
Shreya nodded, but her eyes remained fixed on the illustration. Something about it seemed to pull at her, like a half-remembered dream. "Can I check this out?"
James shook his head. "Special collections don't leave the building. But I can reserve a study room for you tomorrow if you'd like to examine it more thoroughly."
As Shreya reluctantly closed the book, a loose paper fluttered to the floor. She picked it up – it was a newspaper clipping, yellowed with age, mentioning a Professor Richard Shlok, last seen in Patna in 1985.
"I'll take that study room reservation," she said, carefully placing the clipping back between the pages. "Same time tomorrow?"
Later that night, in her small student flat in Bloomsbury, Shreya couldn't sleep. The image from the book kept floating in her mind, and the name 'Mrit' seemed to whisper in the darkness. She opened her laptop and began searching for information about Professor Shlok.
Her phone buzzed again – another message from home. But this time, it was from her younger brother Rohan: "Di, you won't believe what I found in the old market today. Remember those stories Dadi used to tell us about the demon king?"
Shreya's heart skipped a beat as she read the message. The rain outside had grown stronger, drumming against her window with an almost urgent rhythm. She glanced at her clock – 1:30 AM. In twelve hours, she would be back in that basement, diving into the mysteries of that leather-bound book, unaware that her search for a unique project was about to lead her down a path that would change her life forever.