Avinash Chowdhury 1 The rain came down in thick silver lines as Dr. Maya Dutt stood in the old apartment’s balcony in South Kolkata, staring blankly at the street below, where the tramlines glittered like secrets in the monsoon haze. Her days had become a sterile sequence of autopsies, death reports, and the quiet hum of overhead fans in fluorescent-lit government labs, but today had broken the pattern. The courier had arrived just after she returned from the morgue—a small package, no return address, the brown paper brittle with age, sealed with a strange red wax that bore no crest,…