Ishani Varma Part 1: Arrival at St. Elora’s The jeep rattled up the winding path as mist bled through the pine trees like a silent ghost. Ananya Roy pressed her forehead to the cool windowpane, watching the outline of the valley shift and disappear. Below, the Nilgiris rolled in endless folds of green-grey, but up here, only fog and silence reigned. The driver, a man of few words named Murugan, grunted as the tyres scraped a patch of gravel and caught again. “St. Elora’s ahead,” he said without turning. “Ten minutes.” She nodded, fingers curled around the worn leather strap…