A short distance past Chidambaram Railway Station, an apartment complex suddenly comes into view, standing between the shadows of ancient temples. Mud roads surround it, trees that have not yet fully come alive, and in the middle of all that stands the building—as if defying time itself. The walls still carry the scent of fresh paint, while the evening sun reflects faintly on the window glass. On the third floor of that apartment, at the very end of the corridor, Krishna stood before Flat Number 369. The key was in his hand, but his fingers refused to move toward the lock. The key did not feel heavy, yet six months ago, standing at this very door, Radha had smiled beside him and said, "This is our home… even the number is so beautiful." Her words still echoed clearly in his ears.
Back then, the flat was empty. Cement streaks were visible on the walls, and a thin layer of dust covered the floor. Yet Radha had filled that emptiness with a future. "This will be our bedroom… my bookshelf near the window… plants in the balcony… and your study room right near the door. Even if you work all night, I'll still be watching you," she had said, bringing life to the empty rooms with words alone. Krishna had smiled, but even then, a fear was hidden in that smile—not an unfamiliar fear, but the fear that everything he loved would one day be taken away from him. That fear had now become reality, leaving him standing alone before the door.
The sound of the key turning echoed through the apartment corridor. The door opened. As he stepped inside, the first thing he saw was not emptiness—it was memories. He had brought all the furniture himself: the sofa, dining table, bed, curtains—everything arranged neatly. Yet in every object, Radha's absence was visible. The lamp beside the bed glowed dimly, but the place where Radha used to sit and read stood empty. The kitchen bore her orderliness. "These should be kept like this… you always mess things up," her laughter seemed to echo. Krishna closed his eyes for a moment. Even the air inside the house felt like it carried her fragrance.
Krishna was an archaeologist. Unearthing history buried in soil was his passion—ancient caves, stone inscriptions, broken idols of forgotten gods formed his world. But what confronted him in this house was not a memory buried in the earth; it was pain embedded deep within his heart. It was not work that brought him back to Chidambaram—it was Radha. Even without her, Chidambaram felt filled with her presence. Every street, every temple bell, every evening glow seemed to whisper her name.
Evening slowly turned into night. The streetlights outside cast their glow into the balcony. Krishna sat on the sofa, listening to the silence around him. People lived in this apartment—somewhere a television played, somewhere utensils clanged, somewhere children laughed. But his flat wore a different kind of silence. In that silence, he expected to hear Radha's voice. But he didn't. That emptiness slowly began to consume him from within.
He picked up his bag and placed it on the study table. Inside were old notes, photographs, maps. Among them was a sketch of a cave hidden in the forests of Chidambaram—the cave that had changed his life. It was there that Radha had discovered the wonder. The Krishnakantha Mani. An oval-shaped stone that did not emit light, but a strange emptiness. A force capable of blocking dark matter. Why it was hidden beneath temples, who placed it there—no one knew. But as long as the stone existed, the world had protection. The first people to learn this truth were Krishna and Radha. And that knowledge became their curse.
Night passed. Krishna did not sleep. Even when he lay on the bed, his eyes refused to close. Shadows moved along the walls. Someone walked outside. And then—very faintly—a sound from the wall. At first, he ignored it. A new house, new noises. But the sound came again. Soft. As if someone nearby was speaking. Krishna opened his eyes and looked toward the wall. There was nothing on it. Yet the sound was unmistakable.
It felt like someone said, "Hello…"
Krishna stood up and walked toward the wall. He placed his hand on it—the coldness of bricks. "Is anyone there?" he asked. His own voice sounded unfamiliar to him. A moment of silence followed. Then, once again, the same gentle sound. "I'm here…" The words seemed to slip through the wall itself.
Krishna's heart began to race. Was this an illusion? A trick of a sleep-deprived mind? He asked again, "Who are you?" After a pause, the answer came. "My name is Janaki." Hearing the name, Krishna found himself unable to speak. The name was ordinary—but hearing it from within a wall was not. "Are you… in the next flat?" he asked. A soft laugh came from the other side. "Maybe… but looking at you, it doesn't feel that simple," she replied.
There was a strange closeness in her words. They could not see each other, yet even with the wall between them, her voice reached straight into his heart. Krishna sat down, leaning against the wall. "My name is Krishna," he said. There was a tremor in his voice as he spoke his name. Janaki fell silent for a moment. Even that silence felt like a conversation. "Did you move here recently?" she asked.
"After six months…" Krishna replied. What he meant was something else—but that was all that came out.
Night grew deeper. The conversation between them flowed slowly—small questions, gentle pauses. Where did you come from, what do you do, why are you alone? Krishna did not tell everything. He couldn't. But in Janaki's voice there was a quiet understanding. She too did not reveal much about herself. "I'm tired from cleaning the house," she said. Then, almost thoughtfully, "This wall… it feels strange, doesn't it?" Krishna smiled. It was the first smile to appear on his face in a very long time.
That night, for the first time, the house did not feel like an enemy. Radha's absence was still there. But a single voice from beyond the wall lit a small lamp in that emptiness. Krishna did not know that this voice was about to tear his life open once again. He did not know that the wall was not built only of bricks. He knew only this—that Flat Number 369 was pulling him back into a story. A story written by love, mystery, and time together.
Morning light entered Flat Number 369 with great care. Sunlight filtered through the window glass, sliding gently across the furniture, doing its work quietly, disturbing nothing. When Krishna opened his eyes, his first thought was that he was still caught between last night's words. The voice from the wall—"My name is Janaki"—remained vividly etched in his mind. It did not feel like a dream. Because the silence that followed her words had been real too. Silence in dreams is never this heavy.
He sat up, trying not to look at the empty pillow beside him. But his eyes went there on their own. For six months he had tried to get used to that emptiness. Yet every morning it struck him as something new. Once, Radha's hair carried its fragrance on that very pillow. Now, even memory seemed unable to remain—only air moved through that space. Krishna took a deep breath. Even breathing inside this house felt like a struggle.
After bathing and getting ready, he picked up his archaeology department bag. Inside were notes, old photographs, and a small stone fragment still dusted with earth—pieces of his life. He took the stone out and turned it in his hand. It looked ordinary. But he knew—everything visible on the surface of the earth is not truth. Some truths remain buried beneath it. Unearthing them requires courage. And that courage had now become his curse.
Krishna had not always been obsessed with the ancient past. In his first year of college, he was an ordinary student—marks, friends, small dreams. But a field trip in his second year changed him completely. Deep within the forests of Tamil Nadu, far from human sight, stood an ancient cave. The markings and carvings on its walls felt as though they were speaking to him. Standing where time itself seemed to pause, breathing air thousands of years old—he could not let go of that feeling. From that day on, he decided he would not chase the future. He would try to understand the past.
That was the same college where he met Radha. She was not an archaeology student. She researched physics—especially dark matter. That invisible emptiness which occupies most of the universe became a question that consumed her. "How can something that looks like nothing hold so much power?" she asked once. Krishna laughed then. He did not fully understand the question at the time. But in that laughter, a bond was born. They belonged to different worlds—but they were united by questions.
During fieldwork near Chidambaram, the distance between them dissolved completely. Secret pathways beneath temples, caves hidden in forests—this was Krishna's world. But Radha did not see them merely as relics. She sensed something more. "These temples aren't just for worship," she once said. "They feel like they're guarding some greater balance." Krishna dismissed it as imagination. He did not know then that imagination would one day become truth.
The day they descended into the cave, the air changed instantly. Outside, heat. Inside, a chilling coolness. Water droplets clung to the walls. As they went deeper, an unnatural silence enveloped them. That was where Radha saw the stone. An egg-shaped rock that did not emit light. Yet the air around it felt strange—emptiness, but an emptiness with weight. Radha's eyes lit up. "This…" her voice trembled, "This feels like it can repel a dark matter field." Krishna did not fully grasp her words, but one thing was clear—this was no ordinary artifact.
From that day, their lives changed. They told no one about the Krishnakantha Mani. In departmental reports, it was recorded as an ordinary stone. But in her notes, Radha wrote the truth. "This must never go out," she said. "It protects the world. If it falls into the wrong hands… the damage would be beyond imagination." Krishna agreed. Not because of love—but because of fear. Even he felt a strange dread in the presence of that stone. Power was always dangerous.
As these memories circled his mind, he looked again at the wall from the previous night. The same wall. Ordinary bricks. Yet it no longer felt ordinary. Do walls have stories? If they do, do they call out to us? He shook his head, pushing those thoughts aside. There was work to do. Life had to continue. He closed the apartment door and stepped outside.
At the department, a few people paused when they saw him. Krishna, returning after six months, looked like a memory to them. Someone murmured "Sorry." Someone else avoided his eyes. No one spoke Radha's name. It had become an unspoken agreement. Krishna sat at his desk. Old files, new emails. But his mind was not there. It was still with the voice beyond the wall.
When he returned home in the evening, the first thing he did was sit near the wall. He waited. He smiled at himself—an archaeologist, a man who believed only in evidence, now waiting for a voice. And the voice came. "Office today?" Janaki asked. There was familiarity in her tone—not something born from a single conversation. Krishna replied softly. About his work. She spoke about her household chores. Small talk. Yet between those words, a bond was forming.
Night deepened again. The distance between the wall seemed to shrink. Krishna did not tell her everything. But Janaki did not ask. Sometimes, not asking is understanding. Krishna had learned that from Radha. Now, he felt the same sensation again—different form, different voice.
He did not know where this friendship would lead him. He did not know that this wall was a threshold between two worlds. He did not know that what he had lost six months ago would force him to look six months back in time. He knew only this—an archaeologist always descends into the depths of the earth. But now, his life was descending into the depths of a wall. There was no soil there. There were memories. There was love. There was danger.
Flat Number 369 was silent again.
But that silence was no longer empty.
It was filled with a story.
And that story had only just begun.