Aritra Mukherjee Chapter 1: It was a sultry April morning in Kolkata, the kind where the air feels heavy enough to drown in, thick with humidity, sweat, and the dull weight of unspoken things. The city, always loud and unapologetically alive, had barely opened its sleepy eyes when the scream echoed along the concrete ribs of Howrah Bridge, bouncing off the iron like a banshee’s call, scattering a flock of pigeons into the early light. The chaiwalas had just begun their first boil, the fishermen were dragging their nets near the Hooghly’s edge, and fruit vendors were still unpacking their…