The sky over Kolkata was a pale grey — clouds heavy and unmoving, as if the world itself was holding its breath.
Kaizen stood before a small yellow house, fingers brushing the rusted gate.
The nameplate was faded, its letters uneven but familiar.
"Manna."
He hadn't been here in years.
The same bougainvillea vines still climbed the wall, stubborn and alive.
The same cracked tiles led to the door, remembering footsteps no one made anymore.
Only now — the windows were shut, The curtains drawn, No voices, No laughter.
Just echoes that refused to fade.
Lyra stood beside him, umbrella folded in her hand.
"You sure about this?" she asked softly.
Kaizen nodded.
"I just… want to see her once," he said. "Talk to her parents. Maybe they know something."
Lyra didn't answer.
She could see it in his eyes — not grief, not nostalgia,
Something sharper, Determination.
They stepped through the half-open gate.
The house smelled faintly of old paint and dust — the scent of time standing still.
A middle-aged woman opened the door.
Tired eyes.
A smile that tried its best.
"Yes?"
Kaizen hesitated, then bowed slightly.
"Auntie… I'm Kaizen. I used to study with Simi — science tuition."
The woman blinked, then recognition softened her face.
"Oh… you," she said quietly. "I remember. You're the boy who used to draw her pictures."
Kaizen smiled faintly.
"Yes."
She invited them inside.
The living room was small and silent, its walls crowded with framed photographs.
Simi in a white dress, smiling too brightly.
Simi holding a school award, eyes proud.
But one photograph stood apart.
Its glass was cracked — splintered straight across her face.
Kaizen's gaze lingered.
"She looked… happy," he said.
Her mother's voice trembled.
"She was Always dreaming, She wanted to go abroad, Learn animation."
She paused, then smiled sadly.
"She admired you a lot, you know."
Kaizen's fingers stilled on his knee.
"Admired?" he echoed.
"She used to say — 'He'll make something big someday.'"
The woman chuckled weakly.
"She even bought your first manga."
Kaizen lowered his head.
"She was the first person who ever did."
Silence settled between them — not empty, but heavy.
Lyra watched him quietly, realizing something she hadn't fully understood before.
Simi wasn't just a memory, She was the beginning.
After a while, Kaizen spoke again, carefully.
"Auntie… I'm sorry to ask. But did the police find anything? The news said—"
"They said it was a robbery," the woman interrupted softly.
Then her voice broke. "But…"
"She was found near an abandoned warehouse. Nothing was stolen."
"Her phone was missing."
She swallowed.
"Only one thing was left near her."
Kaizen looked up.
"A red thread," she whispered. "Tied around her wrist."
Kaizen froze.
A red thread.
Something deep inside him shifted — like a lock turning.
The dream returned to him in fragments.
Simi's hand.
The red thread glowing faintly.
The moment just before everything shattered.
Lyra noticed the change instantly.
"Kaizen?"
He blinked, the room snapping back into place.
"Nothing," he said calmly. "Just… thinking."
But his pulse had already quickened.
Before leaving, Kaizen stepped into the small study room at the back of the house.
The same narrow table.
The same corner where equations once fought doodles for space.
Time had been careful here.
Under a glass sheet lay a few old sketch papers.
One caught his breath.
A rough pencil drawing — a boy and a girl standing beneath the rain.
Between them, space.
Between them, connection.
Below it, a single line:
"Even if the future forgets us, our story will draw itself again."
Kaizen's chest tightened.
He took a photo quietly.
Then whispered,
"Thank you, Simi. For believing in me first."
Outside, rain began to fall.
Slow, Heavy, Honest.
Drops tapped against Lyra's umbrella as they walked.
Halfway down the road, Kaizen stopped.
He looked up at the grey sky.
Lyra turned.
"You're thinking about her again?"
He shook his head.
"No, About the killer."
His voice lowered, steady but dangerous.
"A robbery wouldn't leave a red thread," he said.
"That's not random."
"That's a message."
"Connected to what?" Lyra asked.
Kaizen turned toward her.
For a brief second, his right eye glowed faintly red — not violent, not wild, Focused.
"I don't know yet," he said.
"But stories don't leave symbols without meaning."
The rain fell harder.
And somewhere beyond the clouds,
the horizon cracked just a little more.
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