The funeral was quiet.
Clouds hung low in the sky as Ritika Dey's body was brought home one last time. A white cloth covered her, marigolds surrounding her still form.
Her family was wealthy. Her father, Abir Dey, owned a powerful newspaper chain. Her mother was a housewife—soft-spoken, reserved.
Abir stood silently at the edge of the verandah, unmoving. Her mother sat on the floor, rocking gently, her eyes hollow from days without sleep. Family members whispered prayers, but no one truly knew what to say.
Because no one could explain why this had happened.
Why a bright, talented girl had fallen victim to something none of them could name.
---
The Masked Detective stood outside the gate, watching from the shadows. She didn't step inside, didn't reveal herself. But her eyes never left Ritika's mother.
The woman murmured softly to herself.
The Detective moved closer—just enough to hear.
> "She said someone was wearing her… someone was pretending. I thought it was just dreams…"
Her voice cracked.
> "She begged us not to make her go back to school. We thought she was just scared of exams…"
---
Later, Inspector Ratan arrived in plain clothes, head bowed. He approached Abir Dey quietly.
"I need to ask something," he said gently. "I know this is a hard time…"
Abir said nothing at first. Then he gave a small nod.
Ratan continued, "Do you remember anything unusual in the last few weeks? Anyone new in Ritika's life? Visitors? Letters?"
Without a word, Abir reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded red paper.
> "She found this in her school bag. A week before it happened," he said quietly.
Ratan unfolded the note.
In sharp, childish handwriting:
> "You are chosen. She's waiting."
There was no name. No signature.
But at the corner, stamped clearly—
> The black rose and crescent moon.
Ratan clenched the paper in his fist.
"Sir," he said calmly, "I know what you're going through. But I need your help. Without it, I can't stop this."
Abir gave a tired sigh.
"…Come inside."
---
That evening, the Masked Detective returned—alone.
Inside, Ritika's mother was lighting incense before her daughter's framed photo.
"When did you last speak with her?" the Detective asked gently.
The woman didn't turn.
"I know who you are," she said. "You're the one helping the police."
The Detective stood still.
"I don't know your name," the mother continued, "but Ritika… she drew you. Weeks before it all began. The mask. The coat. The moon. It's all in her sketchbook."
The Detective walked to the shelf and picked up the book.
Flipping through pages of doodles, numbers, and stars—she stopped.
> A perfect sketch of the Masked Detective.
Drawn long before they ever met.
Beneath it, Ritika had written:
> "She comes when truth is buried."
The Detective slowly closed the book.
A storm was coming.
And it had started long before Ritika ever fell.
---
Elsewhere…
In a dimly lit room in another corner of the city, a figure lit a candle.
They placed a fifth wooden coin on a copper tray.
One word was carved into its surface:
> "Aaradhya."
The ritual circle was nearly complete.
Only one coin remained.
And one final truth was about to rise.
---
To Be Continued…