Shyamal Roy 1 The monsoon evening wrapped Bhowanipore in a damp silence, the kind that made the air feel heavy with memory. Trisha Dutta stood alone in her grandmother’s crumbling study, the scent of old paper and camphor oil curling into her nostrils. Dust motes floated like silent watchers in the fading light as she lifted the marble lion from the bookshelf, more out of habit than intention. Its weight surprised her—denser than it looked, colder too. Beneath it, tucked neatly in a groove in the wood, was a yellowed envelope sealed with wax that had long since cracked. Her…