"Not every man who returns from the dark
is the same one who left."
The haveli was frozen.
No one moved.
The lantern burned low.
Its flame shrinking like it wanted to hide from what was coming.
Like it was afraid.
It began with a sound.
Three sharp knocks.
Tok. Tok. Tok.
Precise.
Deliberate.
Like someone demanding entry.
Like someone who knew they would be let in.
Every head turned toward the old wooden door.
Priya's camera strap slipped from her wrist.
The camera falling to the floor with a dull thud.
Meghna clutched Diya's arm.
Her fingers digging in so hard they left marks.
Abhay stood first.
His jaw tight.
His eyes fixed on the door.
Like he was trying to see through it.
Like he was trying to see what waited on the other side.
"No one opens it," he ordered.
His voice like iron.
Final.
"No one moves."
But the knocks came again.
Louder this time.
Tok. Tok. Tok.
Demanding.
Insistent.
As if the door itself was being beaten from the outside by fists that wouldn't stop.
By hands that knew they would eventually get in.
The group held their breath.
Held it so long it became painful.
Held it so long it became a prayer.
Then, a voice.
Faint.
Muffled by the door.
"...it's me."
Yashpal's voice.
Unmistakable.
Deep.
Familiar.
Rohit's eyes went wide.
"It's him!"
His voice pitched high with relief.
With desperation.
"It's Yashpal!"
He half-rose before Abhay's hand shot out.
Shoving him back down.
Hard enough to hurt.
"Wait," Abhay hissed.
His eyes still fixed on the door.
"Listen."
The voice came again.
"Let me in."
It was Yashpal.
The timbre.
The weight.
No mistaking it.
The voice of someone who had survived.
Who had fought.
Who had lived through whatever the forest had tried to do to him.
Abhay hesitated only a moment longer.
Then moved toward the door.
He lifted the wooden bar with a groan.
The sound slicing through the silence like a scream.
Like a violation.
Like something breaking that shouldn't be broken.
The door creaked open.
Hinges protesting.
Wood groaning.
And there he was.
Yashpal.
But not the man they remembered.
His face was drenched in blood.
It dripped from his hair.
Streaked his jaw.
Soaked the collar of his shirt.
Dripped onto the floor.
Drop by drop.
Like a clock counting down.
His hands were red to the wrist.
Trembling.
As if they had done something.
As if they carried guilt.
As if they had touched something that couldn't be washed away.
His eyes were wide.
Not with rage or pain.
But with shock so deep it was almost vacant.
Like something had hollowed him out.
Like the thing inside had eaten everything real and left only the shell.
Saanvi gasped.
Her hand flying to her mouth.
Priya covered her mouth.
Her fingers pressing hard as if to keep a scream from escaping.
Meghna staggered back.
Her body instinctively rejecting what it was seeing.
"Yashpal…" Diya whispered.
Her voice breaking.
Like the name was too much for her to say.
Like speaking it made it real.
He tried to speak.
His lips moved.
Cracked.
Parted.
No words came.
Only a faint rasp.
A ghost of sound.
Like his voice was coming from very far away.
Like his voice was coming from somewhere that wasn't his throat anymore.
Then, finally—
"It's me."
The group froze.
It was him.
The voice was his.
Not twisted.
Not hollow.
His.
But the blood.
The silence.
The emptiness in his eyes.
"What happened to you?" Rohit demanded.
His voice shaking.
Cracking under the weight of what he was seeing.
"What the hell happened out there?"
Yashpal's mouth worked soundlessly for a moment.
Opening and closing.
Like a fish pulled from water.
Like something trying to remember how to speak.
Then he staggered forward.
His legs barely holding his weight.
His body moving with the jerking quality of something that wasn't quite coordinated.
Collapsing against the wall.
His hand leaving a streak of blood across the stone.
Meghna crouched beside him but flinched as her hand touched his sleeve.
The fabric was soaked.
Sticky.
Warm still.
Too warm.
"Where's Kabir?" Abhay asked sharply.
Stepping closer.
His voice leaving no room for evasion.
"Yashpal, look at me."
"Where's Kabir?"
Yashpal's blood-caked hands rose slowly.
Trembling.
As if he wanted to explain.
As if the words were forming but couldn't find their way out.
But his voice broke.
Fractured under some weight that was too heavy to carry.
"I… I… I tried—"
His voice came out in pieces.
"He… he…"
Silence swallowed the rest.
The group stared.
Hearts pounding.
Breath caught in their throats.
Waiting.
Waiting for the completion of a sentence that wouldn't come.
Every second stretched too long.
The unanswered question growing heavier and heavier.
What had happened in the forest?
What had Yashpal seen?
What had he done?
And was this truly Yashpal standing before them—
Or something else wearing his voice?
Something that had learned his cadence.
That had learned his rhythm.
That had learned to speak like a man who had survived when survival was no longer possible.
Diya stood slowly.
Moving toward him.
"Yashpal, what did you see?"
"Tell us."
But Yashpal's eyes—when they finally focused on her—held no recognition.
They held something else.
Something that looked like pity.
Like knowledge.
Like understanding of truths that couldn't be spoken aloud.
His lips moved again.
And this time, words came.
But they weren't what anyone expected:
"The forest remembers everyone."
His voice was hollow now.
Not his voice.
But a voice speaking through him.
"And it's hungry."
His hand reached out.
Toward Diya.
Toward them all.
The blood still dripping.
Still wet.
Still fresh.
"It sent me back."
"To tell you."
"The circle must be complete."
"Someone must remain."
"Someone must stay."
"Someone must…"
His voice faded.
His hand dropped.
And in the sudden silence, the group understood:
Yashpal had been a message.
A warning.
A prophecy written in blood and delivered by something wearing a dead man's face.
"Sometimes, survival is not a blessing.
It is a curse that clings,
dripping red,
until the truth tears itself free."