She arrived home, the heavy weight of her backpack finally hitting the floor with a dull thud. Her uncle was already there, the flickering light of the TV dancing across his face as he sat on the couch. He took one look at her—the slumped shoulders, the furrowed brow—and knew something was up.
"Ishu," he said, his voice gentle. "You look like you're carrying the weight of the world. What happened?"
Anisha forced a small, tired smile. "Nothing happened, Chachu. I'm just... feeling low."
Her uncle patted the cushion beside him. "Come sit here. I'll tell you a story to refresh your mood."
She grabbed a throw pillow, hugging it tight as she settled onto the couch. "Okay, start."
"You know," he began, his eyes twinkling with a sudden memory, "when you were very little, you used to listen to so many stories from me."
"Really?" She leaned in, her stress beginning to melt into curiosity.
"Yes," her uncle replied, his tone dropping into a more serious, conspiratorial whisper. "But today, let me tell you a true story. This one is different—it's full of mystery, suspense, and secrets. You'll find it... interesting, to say the least."
Her grip on the pillow tightened. "I'm listening."
"Long ago, there was a family living in Pune," he said, staring off into the distance as if he could see the past. In that family, there was a boy, used to live with his mother and father. His father was not a good guy."