To Where It All Began ✔

8. THE TRAIL SHE LEFT BEHIND

The sunlight seeped through the curtains as Shreekant pushed open the door to his and Anna's room. It had been left untouched since her death, a sanctuary of silence within Mhatre Niwas, filled with the weight of unspoken memories. The air was dense, carrying faint traces of her perfume, a scent that clung to the room like a ghostly reminder of her presence.

He reached for the light switch, illuminating the dim space that had become a repository of the past they had shared. As the light swept across the walls, his gaze followed, taking in the photographs, framed mementoes, and small personal items that held pieces of her, of them, together. Each wall seemed to carry its own story, memories layered within the confines of their life together.

His mind wandered, almost helplessly, to the smallest moments that now felt monumental. He could picture her with perfect clarity: the way she would cradle his face in her hands, her fingers grazing his chin with a gentle familiarity. He recalled evenings when exhaustion weighed them both down, leaving them sprawled on the bed, her head resting on his chest. He could feel the warmth of those nights, the quiet solace they found in each other's presence.

In his mind's eye, he saw the moment they met for the first time at an art gallery in London. She had found him brooding over some work dilemma, and even as a stranger, she'd sensed his melancholy. She had approached him without hesitation, offering him a bar of chocolate, a gesture that, at the time, had struck him as endearingly innocent, as though he were a child who needed comforting. It was then, in that simple exchange, that she had planted herself firmly in his life.

In just six months, Anna had become a part of him. She offered him a kind of happiness he hadn't thought possible, a stability he had long since given up on. When she confessed her love with a bouquet of her favourite yellow roses, her words brimming with courage and openness, he couldn't say no. It was impossible to refuse her-Anna, who understood his pain and somehow managed to ease it with her mere presence.

She was a firebrand, fierce and unrestrained, yet gentle in her ways. He had admired that quality deeply, her unwillingness to be confined or restrained, her courage to speak her mind in a way he himself had never been able to. For the first time in his life, he had found the strength to defy his father, to make a decision based solely on his own desires, and it was all because of her.

Standing before a large photograph from their wedding, which Anna had shown him just a month ago, via a video call to mark the anniversary of their first meeting, he felt an unbearable ache. She smiled at him from the photo, radiant and alive, and he raised a trembling hand to trace the contours of her face, his fingers lingering on the glass.

"Why did you leave me, Anna?" he whispered, his voice cracking. "Everyone I love leaves... first my mother, and now you." A tear slid down his cheek, but he didn't wipe it away. "I still can't believe you're gone. It's like... it's like you're still here. Your things are here, your fragrance... I keep thinking you'll walk in any moment, calling my name."

He choked back a sob, clutching the frame as he tried to steady himself. "I promise you, Anna, I will find whoever is responsible for this... for taking you away from me," he vowed, his voice filled with a quiet, deadly resolve. He took a shuddering breath, wiping his tears before letting his gaze fall on her side of the room.

Steeling himself, Shreekant walked over to the closet that had been Anna's sanctuary of sorts, where her vibrant collection of clothes and keepsakes remained undisturbed. He hesitated, a pang of guilt and pain twisting in his chest. But he knew he had to search, to comb through her belongings in the hope of finding something-anything-that might give him a clue.

He opened the closet slowly, carefully running his hands over her clothes, each fabric bringing back memories of her. Her books were stacked neatly on one shelf, each title a testament to her wide-ranging interests. His hand grazed the familiar fabric of her favourite scarf, and for a brief moment, he pressed it to his face, inhaling the faint trace of her scent.