Aparajita Tiwari One The train to Prayagraj rolled into the station just before dawn, its rusted wheels screeching softly against the tracks as if whispering secrets to the holy city. Nandita Mukherjee stepped out, clutching her leather satchel and the fading warmth of a voice note from her brother, Neel. It was barely thirty-six seconds long—his voice low, deliberate, and edged with urgency. “They’re watching me… The third dip is a front. Too many missing faces. If anything happens…” Then silence. No location. No follow-up. Just those words, haunting and cryptic. The air smelled of smoke, camphor, and wet earth…