Sourendra Kumar The envelope was old, yellowed at the edges, and bore no return address. Just her name — Kavya Rao — scrawled in ink that had smudged ever so slightly, as if the writer’s hands had trembled. It had arrived amidst a stack of predictable mail — utility bills, press invites, and a food delivery coupon — but the moment Kavya touched it, something shifted. Inside was a faded black-and-white photograph of a mist-covered river and a torn note in careful block letters: “They never left — they were taken. Vaitarna doesn’t forget.” She stared at the image. The…