Voices in the Rain

Eira Sen

Part 1: The Crackling

The rain always came suddenly in her town, not like the timid drizzles that brushed over other places but like an argument with the sky itself. That evening, Tara was sitting cross-legged on the floor of her grandmother’s living room, tracing lines on her notebook when the storm struck. The shutters rattled, the lights flickered, and the smell of wet earth rushed in through the gaps under the door. Beside her, on the wooden cabinet that had been in the house longer than she had, stood the old Philips radio. Its red dial and rust-speckled grill looked like something abandoned in a museum of forgotten machines. It hadn’t played music in years, but her grandmother had refused to throw it away.

The first crackle came just as lightning split the sky. Tara frowned, lifting her head. A burst of static hissed through the room, sharp and unexpected. She looked around; the television was off, her phone was charging silently. The sound had come from the radio. She almost laughed at herself. The thing wasn’t even plugged in. Still, it made another noise, a sputtering cough of electricity. She pushed herself closer and laid her palm on the cabinet, feeling the vibration hum through the wood.

The static rose into a voice. It was faint, broken, as though it was crawling through water. Tara’s skin prickled. She leaned forward until her face hovered an inch from the grill. The words were not clear, yet she swore she heard her own name: “Tara…” drawn out, trembling, then gone. The silence afterward was heavier than the storm outside.

Her grandmother shuffled into the room, wiping her hands on her sari. “What are you doing on the floor like that?” she asked, peering over her spectacles.

Tara pointed mutely at the radio. “It—it spoke.”

The old woman glanced at it, unimpressed. “Static. That thing is older than me.” She patted Tara’s shoulder. “Come eat before the rice turns cold.” And just like that, she walked away.

But Tara’s heart was still thudding. She touched the radio again. It was warm.

At school the next day, she couldn’t shake it. The teacher’s words blurred on the board. She kept hearing the echo of her name, stretched thin and strange. During lunch, she told Arjun.

They had been friends since they were six, when his cricket ball smashed her window and instead of fighting, they decided to share mango popsicles from the corner shop. He was taller now, his hair falling in a careless sweep across his forehead, but his eyes still held that same half-amused, half-serious look that made it impossible for her to hide anything.

“A radio?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. “You sure you weren’t half-asleep?”

“I wasn’t,” she said firmly. “It called my name. I heard it.”

Arjun leaned back on the bench. “Maybe your grandmother’s right. Old wires, loose circuits. Or maybe you were just… expecting something.”

“I wasn’t expecting a ghost to call me,” she snapped, then lowered her voice when a group of juniors looked over curiously.

He smirked. “So now it’s a ghost?”

“I don’t know what it is. But I’m going to find out tonight.”

He studied her for a long moment, then shrugged. “Fine. Call me when it happens again. I want to hear your spooky radio.”

That evening, Tara sat waiting. The storm built slowly this time, a patient gathering of clouds, the smell of damp leaves crawling into every corner of the house. She sat cross-legged again, flashlight on the floor, notebook open beside her. At first there was nothing, only the thud of rain on the tiled roof and the distant crash of thunder. Then, like a curtain ripped aside, the crackling began.

She leaned close. The hiss steadied into sound. A voice again—fainter than before, yet clear enough to twist her stomach into knots.

“…lost…water…don’t…forget me.”

Her pen scratched across the page, desperate to capture every fragment. Then, unmistakably, she heard a name. Not hers this time, but another. “Ravi.”

She froze. The breath left her lungs.

Ravi. Everyone in town knew the name. He had been in their school, a year ahead of her. Two years ago, during the great flood, he had disappeared. They said he’d been swept away with the current when the dam broke. His photograph still hung in the school corridor, next to the ones of other children claimed by that night.

The voice faded back into static. Tara sat rigid, her hand shaking.

She grabbed her phone and called Arjun. He answered groggily. “It’s nine. What—”

“It happened again,” she blurted. “I heard a name. Ravi.”

There was silence on the line. Then he said, “I’m coming over.”

By the time he arrived, the storm was a wall of water outside. He stood dripping in the doorway, his T-shirt plastered to his skin, his hair flattened. “You’re crazy,” he muttered, kicking off his shoes. But his eyes flicked to the radio like it might suddenly leap alive.

Tara pulled him to the cabinet. “Just listen.”

They waited. The radio crackled once, then nothing. Another minute passed. Still nothing. The storm seemed to mock her with its thunder. Arjun folded his arms. “Tara—”

“Wait.” Her nails dug into the wood. She refused to believe it had been her imagination.

Finally, the static surged again. Arjun stiffened. They both bent low. A voice swam through the noise, desperate, broken.

“…they knew…they knew…river…trapped…”

Arjun’s mouth parted. His disbelief melted into something else—fear.

The voice cracked and vanished. Only rain filled the room.

Arjun exhaled sharply. “Okay,” he whispered. “That was not static.”

Tara’s eyes were wide. “I told you.”

The storm roared. The house seemed to listen.

And for the first time, she felt the radio wasn’t broken at all. It was remembering.

Part 2: The Voice That Knew Her Name

The next morning felt strangely heavy, as though the storm had slipped into her bones. Tara kept hearing the static even while brushing her teeth, a faint hiss that wouldn’t leave her ears. She kept checking her phone for Arjun’s texts, but he had gone quiet after last night. Maybe he was still trying to make sense of it. She couldn’t blame him.

At breakfast, her grandmother was humming as she sprinkled sugar over hot puffed luchis. Tara couldn’t eat. Her mind was full of the voice. Ravi’s name. The broken words about being trapped. She kept seeing the wall of water from that night two years ago, rushing through streets, devouring everything. She had been home, safe on higher ground, but half the town had lost people. For most, the flood had become a scar they learned to live with. For her, it had just become a picture in memory. Until now.

At school, Arjun finally cornered her near the cycle stand. His hair was damp again—he must have left home without waiting for it to dry—and his eyes were bloodshot. He shoved his hands into his pockets. “So what exactly do you think we heard?”

“I don’t know.” Her voice shook, but she steadied it. “But it was Ravi. I’m sure of it.”

He gave her a long look. “Ravi is dead.”

“I know that,” she snapped, then lowered her tone. “But what if… what if he isn’t?”

He blinked. “Tara—”

“Or what if someone wants us to know what happened to him? Don’t you get it? The radio is a message.”

For a moment he said nothing. Then, with a sigh, he muttered, “Fine. So what do you want to do? Talk to the police? ‘Excuse me, my grandmother’s ancient radio is picking up ghost frequencies of dead classmates’?”

His sarcasm made her wince. But she straightened. “I want to listen again. Properly this time. Record it. Write it down.”

He rubbed his face. “You’re insane.”

“Maybe. But you heard it too.”

He didn’t answer, which was answer enough.

That night, the storm returned like clockwork. The rain slapped the windows, thunder cracked like gunfire. Tara sat with her notebook open, her phone’s recorder app running. Arjun had sneaked in through the back gate, his shoes leaving wet prints on the floor. They huddled in front of the radio.

For minutes, nothing. Just rain, their own shallow breathing.

Then—the hiss.

Tara’s pulse quickened. She grabbed Arjun’s wrist. The voice grew clearer, as though the storm itself was carrying it.

“…Tara…”

Her heart froze.

It wasn’t Ravi this time. It was her name. Drawn out, trembling.

“…Tara… help… water… buried…”

Arjun’s eyes widened. He squeezed her hand so tightly it hurt. The voice dissolved into static, then vanished.

The silence was unbearable. Tara fumbled for her phone. She stopped the recording and replayed it, but all that came through was noise—static without words. Her stomach dropped.

“It said my name,” she whispered.

Arjun’s face was pale. “I heard it too.”

They sat in silence, listening to the rain. Finally, Arjun muttered, “This is messed up. We shouldn’t mess with this.”

“We can’t ignore it,” she said fiercely. “Someone’s trying to reach us.”

“Or something,” he shot back.

She met his gaze. “Either way, I need to know.”

The following day, Tara found herself in the dusty archives room at school. It wasn’t really an archive—just a forgotten storeroom where yellowed registers gathered dust. She had slipped in during free period, hunting for the flood records. Pages stuck together, names fading under mildew. But she found Ravi’s entry: “Missing, presumed drowned.” A list of others followed. Faces she half-remembered from hallways.

She copied the names into her notebook. Something inside her told her the voices belonged to more than just Ravi.

The door creaked. She jumped. Arjun slipped inside, scowling. “Do you want detention?”

“Keep your voice down.” She showed him the list. “These are the ones who went missing that night. Not just Ravi.”

He scanned the names, then looked at her. “And you think your radio is… what? Broadcasting from them?”

Her voice lowered. “What if the flood wasn’t an accident?”

Arjun stared at her, then shook his head. “You sound like a conspiracy theorist.”

But his fingers tightened on the paper.

That evening, they listened again. The storm was harsher, hammering against the roof. The radio woke almost instantly, bursting into frantic static.

“…they knew…river gates…opened…not accident…”

The words broke apart like glass. Tara clutched her pen, scribbling furiously. Arjun leaned so close his ear nearly touched the grill.

“…not accident…they wanted…gone…”

The last word faded with a crack like a snapped bone.

Arjun reeled back, his face ashen. “This is—no. No way.”

Tara’s throat was tight. “Do you believe me now?”

His jaw worked, silent. Then he muttered, “If this is true… someone in this town let the flood happen.”

Thunder boomed. The house seemed to shiver.

Tara whispered, “And they don’t want us to know.”

Part 3: The Map of Missing Faces

By morning, Tara’s notebook looked like a battlefield—scribbles, arrows, half-phrases circled in red ink. She had written every fragment she remembered, every word the radio had sputtered out. Ravi. Water. Not accident. River gates. And her own name, stretched and broken in the static. She stared at the page until her eyes burned, but no pattern emerged.

She stuffed the notebook into her bag and cycled to school through streets still flooded ankle-deep. The town smelled of damp wood and kerosene. At the cycle stand, Arjun was waiting, arms folded, his hair already curling from the humidity. He didn’t greet her, just raised his eyebrows.

“I wrote everything down,” she said breathlessly.

He glanced at the bag. “You’re treating this like a science experiment.”

“Better than pretending it didn’t happen.”

He sighed but followed her inside.

In the empty library corner, they spread out the list of names Tara had copied from the school’s flood records. She laid her notebook beside it. “I think the voices belong to them,” she whispered. “Not just Ravi—all of them.”

Arjun leaned over the paper, his expression tight. “There are twelve names here. Do you think all twelve will… talk to you?”

“Not me. To us,” she corrected. Then, after a pause, “Maybe.”

He shook his head, but his eyes lingered on the names. Slowly, he pulled out a pen. “If they really are trying to say something, maybe we need a way to track them. Like a map.”

She blinked. “A map?”

“Yeah. Who they were, where they lived, what the radio says each time. Connect the dots. Maybe it’ll tell us why the flood… happened the way it did.”

For a moment, Tara just stared at him. Then she smiled faintly. “You’re mocking me less now.”

“Don’t get used to it,” he muttered, but his ears turned pink.

That evening, the storm rolled back like a rehearsed performance. They sat ready with pens, phone recorder, and a fresh page labeled Map of Missing Faces.

The radio hissed, then crackled into speech.

“…Sonia…behind school…river wall broke…”

The voice was high-pitched, almost childlike. Tara’s hand shook as she wrote. Sonia. The youngest on the list—barely twelve when the flood swallowed her.

“…they watched…they didn’t stop…”

The voice snapped into silence. The static faded.

Arjun stared at the words on the page. “Behind the school… that’s where the embankment collapsed.”

Tara nodded. “But it said they watched. Who?”

The room creaked as thunder split the night. Neither of them spoke for a long time.

Over the next three nights, the radio became their ritual. Each storm pulled out another voice, another broken phrase.

One voice gasped about gates being opened on purpose. Another sobbed about men on the bridge, holding lanterns. A third whispered a number—thirty-seven—as though it meant something vital.

Tara filled her pages with fragments. Arjun drew lines between them, connecting names to places, words to rumors. Slowly, a web formed.

But with each message, the fear deepened. Someone in town had known the flood was coming. Maybe even caused it. And if the dead were desperate to be heard, then the living were desperate to keep them silent.

On the fifth night, the storm was violent, tearing branches from trees. The radio screamed with static before settling into a jagged, urgent voice.

“…they’ll come for you… stop listening… stop…”

Tara’s pen slipped. She looked up at Arjun, her chest tight. “Did you hear that?”

His face was pale. “It… it warned us.”

The static crackled again, but instead of words, a shrill screech burst from the radio, loud enough to make them both flinch. The lightbulb above them flickered and went out, plunging the room into darkness.

Tara clutched Arjun’s hand. For the first time, she wasn’t sure if the voices were allies—or something else.

The next day at school, whispers followed them down the hall. Two teachers glanced at them oddly, and Tara had the eerie sense that someone was watching. At lunch, she leaned toward Arjun. “Do you think… anyone knows what we’re doing?”

He looked uneasy. “We’re not exactly subtle. If anyone saw me sneaking into your house every night—”

“Don’t joke about it,” she hissed.

“I’m not. What if someone doesn’t want us digging?”

She swallowed hard. “Then that means we’re close to something.”

Arjun looked at her like she was losing her mind. “Or it means we’re in danger.”

That evening, Tara’s grandmother stopped her on the way to her room. “Why are you spending so much time near that broken thing?” she asked, eyes sharp behind her glasses.

Tara forced a smile. “Just curious. It’s old, it’s interesting.”

Her grandmother’s gaze lingered, searching. “Some things are left behind for a reason,” she said softly. “Not everything old is worth reviving.”

Tara’s heart pounded. Did she know something? But her grandmother simply turned back to the kitchen, leaving her in uneasy silence.

Later, when the storm came, Tara and Arjun sat rigid, waiting. The static began almost instantly.

“…they’re watching you…” the voice croaked.

Arjun swore under his breath. Tara scribbled the words, her hand trembling.

“…trust no one… even those close…”

The voice broke off. The radio went dead.

The room felt suffocating. Arjun turned to her. “This isn’t just about the flood anymore. They know we’re listening.”

Tara clutched her notebook. The map of missing faces lay open, lines spidering across the page. Every arrow pointed to the same truth: the flood wasn’t an accident. And now, the past was watching them back.

Part 4: The Flood Diaries

The rain didn’t stop for three days straight, turning lanes into streams and fields into brown lakes. Tara sat by her window, her notebook spread open on her lap. The map of missing faces had become messier, darker, as she added more arrows, underlines, exclamation marks. Every time she reread the fragments, her chest tightened. Not accident. They watched. They knew.

Arjun hadn’t come the previous night. He had texted only once: My parents don’t want me going out in the storm. Tomorrow. She didn’t blame him. Still, the silence in the house had felt heavier without him, the radio brooding on the cabinet like a sleeping beast.

When he arrived after school the next day, he carried something under his arm—a battered stack of old notebooks tied together with string. He dropped them onto her desk with a thud.

“What’s this?” Tara asked.

“Flood relief records,” he said grimly. “My father used to volunteer at the community office. These were lying in our storeroom. Dusty, half-molded. I thought maybe they’d help.”

Tara untied the bundle and opened the top notebook. The pages were yellow, ink blurred by damp. Lists of names filled the lines—donations, families evacuated, supplies distributed. But scattered between the records were hurried notes, written in a different, angrier hand.

She read aloud: “‘Day three. Water level rising. Officials refuse to open gates. People begging. Children missing.’”

Her throat tightened. She flipped another page. “‘Day four. Rumor spreads that the gates were opened too late on purpose. Why? Who ordered it?’”

She looked up at Arjun, her eyes wide. “This matches what the voices said.”

He ran a hand through his hair. “It’s someone’s diary. A volunteer maybe. Whoever wrote this didn’t believe the flood was just nature.”

Tara turned the page, her heart hammering. “‘Day five. They said it was unavoidable. But I saw men on the bridge. Lanterns. They watched.’”

She shut the book abruptly. Her hands were trembling.

They read for hours, the storm rattling the shutters. Piece by piece, a picture emerged: supplies disappearing before reaching families, warnings ignored, the dam’s gates opened late, not early. Someone had wanted the destruction. But who?

When her grandmother called them to dinner, Tara could barely swallow a bite. Her mind replayed the words again and again.

Later that night, they sat by the radio. Tara set the diary beside her notebook. The static began quickly, urgent, almost angry.

“…you found it… don’t stop… diary truth…”

Tara scribbled wildly. Arjun leaned in, his face pale.

“…names…in the diary…they’ll try to hide…”

Then silence.

Tara flipped the pages back to the scribbled notes. Names were scrawled in the margins—half-legible, but there. Committee members, local officials. Some crossed out, some circled. She traced a finger under one. “Dasgupta,” she whispered. “That’s our headmaster.”

Arjun’s eyes snapped to hers. “No way.”

But the name was there. Clear.

The next day, school felt like a trap. The corridors smelled of damp chalk and wet uniforms. When the headmaster walked past, his polished shoes leaving no trace of mud, Tara’s stomach twisted. Did he know? Did he remember?

She couldn’t focus in class. At lunch, she leaned close to Arjun. “We have to be careful. If what the diary says is true…”

Arjun cut her off. “Then people in power let kids drown. On purpose.” His voice was sharp, bitter. “And no one stopped them.”

The words hung heavy between them. Tara clenched her fists. “Then we can’t stop either.”

That evening, her grandmother caught her staring at the diary. “Where did you get those old things?” she asked, her tone unusually harsh.

“Arjun found them,” Tara said quickly. “Why?”

Her grandmother’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Some memories aren’t meant to be dug up. They bring nothing but grief.”

Tara’s chest tightened. “But if the truth is there—”

“Truth doesn’t always set you free,” her grandmother said sharply. Then she walked away, leaving Tara shaken.

That night, the radio was louder than ever, as though the storm had merged with its voice.

“…don’t trust them… they’ll silence you…”

Tara’s grip tightened on her pen. “Who? Who will silence us?” she whispered to the machine, though she knew it wouldn’t answer.

“…names… protect… or they’ll come…”

The words dissolved into static.

Arjun shut the notebook. “This is insane. We’re digging into something dangerous.”

Tara met his gaze, her voice firm. “That’s exactly why we can’t stop.”

Thunder cracked. The lights flickered. For a moment, it felt like the house itself agreed—or warned.

Two days later, Tara noticed something strange. In the back pages of the diary, the handwriting changed again—smaller, hurried, like someone writing in secret. She traced the lines with her finger. “‘They’ll come for us if we speak. But the children… the children deserve to be remembered.’”

Beneath it was a crude map. A river drawn in wavy lines, a bridge, and a circle marked behind the school.

Arjun leaned over. “That’s where Sonia’s voice said she was. Behind the school.”

Tara felt a chill. “Maybe there’s something there. Something they didn’t want us to find.”

He closed the diary firmly. “If we go digging behind the school, people will notice.”

She looked at him, determination burning in her chest. “Then we’ll have to do it when no one’s watching.”

That night, as she lay in bed, the rain tapping like fingers on the window, Tara stared at the ceiling. She could still hear the voices, even in silence. Not accident. They knew. Protect the diary. Behind the school.

She clutched the pages to her chest. The storm outside had become more than weather. It was a reminder. The dead were asking her to keep listening, to keep searching.

And Tara knew there was no turning back.

Part 5: Arjun’s Secret

The next morning dawned gray, the sky swollen with unshed rain. Tara carried the diary to school in her bag, the strap digging into her shoulder. She hadn’t slept much. Each time she closed her eyes, she saw the map sketched in crooked lines, the circle drawn behind the school like an accusation.

When she reached the gate, Arjun was already there. He looked restless, his shirt half untucked, his eyes shadowed. He barely greeted her.

“Did you read the back pages again?” he asked in a low voice.

She nodded. “The map. We have to check that place.”

He shoved his hands into his pockets. “Not now. Too many people around. Tonight, maybe.”

Something about his tone made her pause. She studied him. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he muttered quickly, but his eyes darted away.

Classes blurred into a dull hum. Tara couldn’t concentrate. At lunch, she pulled him to the corner of the playground. “You’re hiding something,” she accused.

Arjun sighed, raking a hand through his hair. “Tara, don’t.”

“Don’t what? Pretend I don’t see it? You’ve been… off.”

His jaw clenched. He looked away, then finally spoke. “My father was on the relief committee. His name’s in the diary.”

Her breath caught. “What?”

“I saw it last night. Dasgupta, Mukherjee, and… my father. Circled.” His voice cracked on the last word. “What if he was part of it?”

Tara’s mind spun. Arjun’s father, the tall man who always waved at her when she came over, who had taught them both how to cycle without training wheels, who had told them stories during power cuts. She shook her head. “Maybe the diary is wrong. Or maybe he tried to stop it—”

Arjun cut her off. “Or maybe he let it happen.”

The silence between them was heavy. Rain began to fall, light at first, then harder, drumming on the tin roof of the shed above them.

That evening, Arjun didn’t come over. He texted: Not tonight. Sorry.

Tara sat alone by the radio, the diary open beside her. The storm crashed against the windows. The static rose like breath.

“…truth… divide you… don’t trust… even him…”

She froze, gripping the pen so hard the nib tore the paper. “What do you mean?” she whispered.

“…he knows… his blood guilty… careful, Tara…”

Her chest tightened. She slammed the notebook shut. “No,” she said aloud, though no one was there. “Not Arjun. Not him.”

The radio hissed back to silence.

The next day, Arjun avoided her eyes. They barely spoke in class. At lunch, she cornered him again. “You’re not telling me everything.”

He looked exhausted. “What do you want me to say? That my father could be a murderer? That maybe all those kids drowned because of him?”

Tara’s throat went dry. “We don’t know that yet. The diary—”

“The diary,” he snapped, “is just scribbles. For all we know, some bitter old man wrote lies.”

Her eyes stung. “But you believed it before. Why not now?”

“Because now it points at my family,” he shot back. His voice was raw, breaking.

They stared at each other, rain dripping from the edges of the shed roof. Finally, he muttered, “Maybe you should do this without me.”

The words cut sharper than any thunder.

That night, Tara sat alone again. The house was too quiet; even her grandmother seemed to sense something had shifted. She hovered near the door once, as though she wanted to speak, but then retreated.

When the storm came, Tara forced herself to sit in front of the radio. Her notebook lay open, but her hand shook as she held the pen.

The static screamed to life, almost immediate.

“…don’t let him go… you need each other… but secrets drown…”

Her breath hitched. The voice cracked, then changed, lower, desperate.

“…behind school… find it… proof…”

The room shook with thunder. Tara clutched her notebook. “Proof,” she whispered.

She knew she couldn’t wait for Arjun. Tomorrow, she’d go behind the school herself.

But she didn’t expect him to be waiting at the corner of the lane when she left the next morning. He looked pale, his uniform damp, but his jaw was set.

“You’re going,” he said flatly.

She nodded.

He sighed. “Then I’m coming too.”

For a moment, relief flooded her chest. But she only said, “Fine.”

They walked in silence to the school grounds, the rain soft but steady. The back of the building was half-forgotten, a place where weeds grew tall and bricks crumbled. The circle on the diary’s map pointed here, near the wall where Sonia’s voice had spoken of collapse.

They searched the mud, the roots of the banyan tree, the cracks between bricks. At first there was nothing. Then Arjun’s foot struck something solid beneath the soil. He crouched and scraped away the dirt. A rusted tin box emerged, edges bent, lid almost fused shut.

They pried it open together. Inside were water-damaged papers, brittle with age. A photograph lay on top: a group of men on the bridge at night, lanterns glowing, faces blurred but not unrecognizable.

Tara’s stomach turned cold. She recognized one of them.

Arjun did too. His face went white.

It was his father.

Part 6: The House That Remembered

The photograph lay between them like a wound. The men on the bridge stood in a crooked line, lanterns haloed by fog and rain. Their faces were blurred by water damage, but some features still cut through—arched brows, strong jaws, familiar eyes. Tara’s breath caught when she saw Arjun’s father in the middle, head tilted as if caught mid-speech.

Arjun shoved the picture back into the tin box, his hands trembling. “It doesn’t mean anything,” he muttered.

“It means everything,” Tara whispered. Her pulse throbbed in her ears. “The diary was right. They were there. They watched.”

He shook his head, fierce and desperate. “Maybe they were trying to help. Maybe they were—”

“Opening the gates?” she snapped. “Because that’s what the voices said.”

His eyes flashed. “Stop. Just stop.” He clamped the lid shut and stood abruptly. “I’m done with this.”

She stood too, mud clinging to her shoes. “You can’t walk away now. Not after this.”

He wouldn’t meet her eyes. “I can. And I will.”

The storm had thinned to a drizzle, but the space between them felt like lightning. He turned and walked away, leaving her alone with the rusted box and the voices that wouldn’t stop screaming inside her head.

That night, Tara sat in front of the radio, the tin box resting on the cabinet. Her grandmother shuffled in with a lamp. “Still at it?” she asked, her tone sharp.

Tara didn’t answer. Her hand brushed the photograph again, tracing the blurred outline of Arjun’s father.

Her grandmother sighed, lowered herself into the armchair, and stared at the box. “Where did you find that?”

Tara hesitated. “Behind the school.”

Her grandmother’s expression tightened, a flicker of recognition crossing her face before she masked it. “You shouldn’t have.”

Tara’s throat went dry. “You know what this is.”

“I know it’s dangerous.”

“Did you know about the flood?” Tara demanded, her voice trembling. “Did you know it wasn’t an accident?”

Her grandmother’s eyes clouded, old storms rising in them. “I knew people died. I knew people lied.” She leaned closer. “But some lies keep a town standing. If you pull too hard, everything will collapse.”

Tara’s chest tightened. “Then let it collapse. The truth matters.”

Her grandmother looked at her for a long time, then said softly, “You sound like your mother.”

The words hit like a slap. Tara’s mother had died years ago, long before the flood, long before the radio began to speak. She rarely spoke of her. “What do you mean?” Tara whispered.

But her grandmother only stood, lamp trembling in her hand. “Leave it, Tara. Some houses remember too much. Some memories drown for a reason.”

And she left, the door closing with a finality that made the room colder.

The radio crackled violently, as though awakened by their argument. Tara leaned forward, heart pounding.

“…house knows… voices live there too… secrets under wood…”

She scribbled the words, her hand shaking. “What house?” she whispered.

“…yours… walls remember… she knew…”

Her pen clattered to the floor. “My grandmother?”

Static screamed, then died.

Tara sat frozen. Her house. Her family. The walls themselves were part of this.

The next day at school, Arjun avoided her again. She didn’t chase him. She carried the box in her bag, the photograph burning like fire.

After classes, she walked home alone. The sky was heavy with clouds, though rain hadn’t yet fallen. She pushed open the old wooden door and stepped inside. The house smelled of dampness and history.

She wandered through the rooms, running her fingers along the walls, the cracked plaster, the beams dark with age. She thought of what the voice had said: walls remember.

In her grandmother’s bedroom, she found an old trunk at the foot of the bed. Its brass lock was half-rusted. With effort, she pried it open. Inside were folded saris, letters bound in ribbon, and at the very bottom, a stack of notebooks identical to the diary Arjun had brought.

Her hands shook as she lifted one. The handwriting inside was her grandmother’s.

She read aloud: “‘Day two. The committee met again. They spoke of the dam, of the water rising. They decided to wait. To wait, while children begged on the riverbank. I argued, but they silenced me.’”

Tara’s knees buckled. Her grandmother had been there. She had known. She had written it all down.

 

That night, when the storm returned, Tara placed her grandmother’s diary beside the tin box. The radio hummed to life almost instantly.

“…she fought… she tried… but they silenced her too…”

Tears blurred Tara’s vision. “Who silenced her?” she whispered.

“…those men… the ones in the picture… still here… still watching…”

The radio shrieked, then fell silent.

Tara sat trembling, her grandmother’s words echoing in her head. If she had fought, why hadn’t she said anything all these years? What had silenced her? Fear? Threats? Or something worse?

Later, when her grandmother came to check on her, Tara held up the diary. “You were there.”

Her grandmother’s face went pale. She sank into the chair, her voice a whisper. “I tried, Tara. I tried to stop them. But no one listened. And when I spoke too loudly, they threatened your mother. They said accidents could happen. After she died, I never spoke again.”

Tara’s chest constricted. “All this time, you let everyone believe it was just nature.”

Her grandmother’s eyes glistened. “Sometimes survival is louder than truth.”

Tara shook her head, tears stinging. “Not anymore.”

The storm raged outside, but Tara knew the real storm was only just beginning. The walls remembered, the house remembered, and so did she.

Part 7: Between Thunder and Silence

For two days, Tara avoided Arjun. Not because she wanted to, but because she didn’t know how to face him. Each time she pictured his father’s blurred figure in that photograph, lantern light bending across his features, a knot twisted in her stomach. She couldn’t decide which weighed heavier—the fear of what his family had done, or the fear of losing the only person who stood by her through everything.

At night, she sat in front of the radio, her grandmother’s diary open on her lap. The voices were coming quicker now, almost impatient.

“…truth rising… storm remembers… finish what she began…”

Tara traced the ink of her grandmother’s entries, each word written years ago trembling with urgency. They threatened your mother. They silenced me. Her mother’s absence, her grandmother’s silence, the town’s scar—all knotted together into a single storm.

But she couldn’t untangle it alone.

The third evening, she found Arjun waiting by the cycle stand after school. His face was pale, but his eyes were steady.

“We need to talk,” he said.

She hesitated, then nodded.

They walked together in silence until they reached the banyan tree near the old railway line, a place where no one ever came. He leaned against the trunk, his shoulders tense. “I can’t stop thinking about that photo.”

Tara’s throat tightened. “I know.”

“My father—he was always proud of the work he did during the flood. He said he saved lives. He wore that badge like armor.” His voice broke. “But what if he wasn’t saving them? What if he was deciding who lived and who didn’t?”

Tara touched the edge of her notebook. “The voices don’t lie, Arjun. And neither does the diary.”

He shut his eyes. “Then what does that make me? His son?”

She reached out, placing a hand on his arm. “You’re not him.”

His eyes opened, glassy with tears he refused to let fall. “But blood remembers, Tara. Just like your house. Maybe that’s why the radio chose us.”

She shook her head. “No. It chose us because we’re the only ones listening.”

For a moment, thunder rumbled in the distance, as if agreeing.

That night, they sat together again before the radio. The storm was fierce, wind howling through the shutters. The static burst alive.

“…bridge… names buried… they hide in plain sight…”

Tara scribbled furiously. “Bridge again. That’s the key.”

Arjun leaned closer, his hand brushing hers. “What about names buried?”

The voice returned, louder this time. “…committee… still meets… storm children forgotten…”

Then silence.

Arjun’s eyes were wide. “Committee. That’s still active. My father’s still on it.”

Tara’s pulse hammered. “Then the cover-up never ended.”

The radio screeched, then cut off so suddenly the silence was deafening.

Between thunder and silence, they sat trembling, realizing the storm wasn’t just about the past. It was about the present.

The following day, Tara dug deeper. She skipped lunch and slipped into the municipal library, rifling through bound records of town council meetings. Most were routine—road repairs, crop subsidies, annual budgets. But tucked into the flood year, she found one thin folder with half its pages missing.

Arjun arrived, panting from running. She slid the folder toward him. “Look.”

The surviving minutes mentioned “emergency measures,” “controlled release of water,” and “unavoidable losses.” No signatures, no names—those had been torn out.

“They erased themselves,” Arjun muttered.

Tara’s eyes burned. “But the photograph proves they were there.”

“And the diaries.”

“And the voices.”

For the first time, their scattered pieces began to feel like a case.

That night, the storm came late. They waited by the radio, nerves fraying with every tick of the clock. Finally, the static burst forth, jagged and raw.

“…bridge holds the proof… under stone… iron box…”

Tara’s breath caught. “An iron box. Like the one behind the school.”

Arjun gripped the table. “At the bridge.”

“…be quick… before they silence you…”

The radio fell quiet, leaving only the hammering of rain.

Tara and Arjun looked at each other.

“We have to go,” she said.

“Tonight,” he agreed.

The rain was relentless, but they pulled on raincoats and slipped out through the back lanes. The bridge loomed ahead, its arches shadowed by mist, water roaring beneath. The night smelled of moss and iron.

They crouched near the foundation stones, searching with flashlights. Mud sucked at their shoes, rain plastered their hair to their faces. Finally, Arjun’s light caught the corner of metal wedged deep beneath a slab.

“Here!” he shouted over the storm.

Together they dug, fingers numb, nails caked in mud. At last the iron box came free, heavier than the one before. Tara’s heart pounded as they forced it open.

Inside lay papers wrapped in oilcloth, miraculously dry. Typed reports, stamped with official seals. Lists of names. Records of the dam’s gates. And at the top, in clear print: Controlled Flood Release – Committee Authorization.

Arjun’s hand shook as he lifted the first page. His father’s signature scrawled across the bottom.

Tara felt the world tilt. The truth was no longer whispers on the radio, no longer scribbles in hidden diaries. It was ink and paper, undeniable.

Arjun stared at the signature, rain dripping from his chin. His lips parted, but no words came.

Thunder crashed above, shaking the bridge. Tara grabbed his arm. “We have proof now.”

But Arjun’s face was stricken. “And what do I do with this, Tara? Expose my own father?”

Between thunder and silence, the question hung, heavier than the storm itself.

Part 8: The Rain Takes, the Rain Returns

The papers felt heavier than stone. Tara held one in trembling hands, the words blurring as the rain slid across her skin. Controlled Flood Release – Committee Authorization. The seals were real. The signatures were real. There, in bold ink, was Arjun’s father’s name.

Arjun staggered back from the box, his face pale, his breath shallow. “This… this can’t be right. Maybe they forged it. Maybe—”

“Arjun,” Tara whispered, clutching his wrist. “We both know it’s real.”

Lightning split the sky, throwing the bridge into stark relief. Water churned below, the same water that had carried away children, families, half the town. The storm that had taken so much was now returning everything they had tried to bury.

Arjun’s jaw clenched. “If this gets out, my family’s ruined.”

Tara’s voice was raw. “And twelve families finally get justice.”

He flinched, as though she had struck him.

Back at her house, they spread the documents across the floor. Her grandmother hovered in the doorway, eyes wide with horror. “Where did you find these?” she demanded.

“Under the bridge,” Tara said quietly.

Her grandmother’s hands shook. “Then they’ll know you have them.”

“Who’s they?” Arjun asked, his voice sharp.

She looked at him, then at Tara. “The ones who signed. The ones who survived by silence. Do you think they’ll let children with schoolbags tear their world apart?”

Tara’s throat tightened. “So we stay silent too?”

Her grandmother’s eyes glistened. “Silence kept you alive, Tara. Don’t trade it away.”

But Tara felt the weight of every voice that had cracked through the radio. Silence hadn’t saved them. Silence had drowned them.

The next evening, when Arjun came again, his expression was different. Harder. He sat by the table, staring at the papers. “We can’t take this to the police,” he said flatly.

“Why not?” Tara demanded.

“Because they’re part of it. My father knows them all. They’ll bury this before it sees daylight.”

“Then we go to the press. To someone outside.”

He shook his head. “And what happens then? You think they won’t know it came from us? They’ll come for you. For me. For your grandmother.”

Her heart pounded. “So what do you want to do? Burn it? Pretend none of this exists?”

His silence was sharper than thunder.

That night, the storm brought another voice, frantic, jagged:

“…don’t stop… bridge truth… rain remembers… if you hide it, more will drown…”

Tara’s eyes stung as she wrote. She turned to Arjun. “Do you hear them? They’re begging us.”

He shook his head, but his hands were clenched into fists. “They’re ghosts, Tara. They’re not the ones who’ll knock on our doors at midnight.”

“But they’re the ones who were drowned because of your father’s committee.”

The words slipped out before she could stop them. His head snapped up, eyes blazing. “Don’t you dare.”

“I’m not blaming you,” she said quickly, her voice breaking. “But don’t ask me to betray them again. I won’t.”

The following day, the town felt different. Men in dark raincoats lingered near the school gates. At the tea stall, conversations stopped when Tara walked by. She knew then that her grandmother had been right—they already knew.

In the library, she and Arjun sat hunched over the documents. His hands trembled as he traced his father’s signature. “If this comes out, my family’s name is finished.”

“And if it doesn’t, twelve families never heal,” Tara said softly.

He looked at her, eyes glassy. “Why do you care so much? None of them were your family.”

She swallowed hard. “Because they could have been. Because silence killed them, and I won’t let it kill us too.”

For a long time, he said nothing. Then, in a voice barely audible, he whispered, “What if we gave it to someone outside the town? Anonymous. No names, no fingers pointing back.”

Her chest tightened. “Would you really help me do that?”

His lips pressed into a thin line. “I don’t know. But I can’t keep pretending.”

That night, the storm was louder than ever. The radio blazed alive as soon as lightning struck.

“…time is short… they watch you… rain takes, rain returns…”

Tara clutched Arjun’s hand. The voice surged one last time.

“…truth will drown again if you let it.”

The static snapped, leaving them in breathless silence.

The next morning, the rain paused briefly, the streets slick with puddles reflecting a gray sky. Tara and Arjun sat in her room, the documents spread out between them.

“We have to move,” Tara said. “We can’t keep them here.”

“Where?” Arjun asked.

“Somewhere they can’t touch.”

He stared at her, then at the photograph, then at the papers. His voice was low, pained. “Do you know what it means if we do this? My father will be destroyed.”

Tara’s eyes burned. “And if we don’t, Ravi stays forgotten. Sonia stays forgotten. They all do.”

His jaw tightened. He looked away, but she saw the battle in his face.

Outside, the sky darkened again. Thunder rolled.

Tara whispered, “The rain returned their voices to us. Now it’s our turn to return the truth.”

That night, as the first drops fell, Arjun appeared at her door with a backpack. His voice was flat but resolved. “If we’re doing this, we do it tonight.”

She stepped aside, her chest tight with relief and fear.

The storm had come again. And this time, it wasn’t just the voices in the rain—it was the rain itself, demanding reckoning.

 

Part 9: The Last Broadcast

The backpack looked too small to carry the weight of what they planned to do. Yet inside it lay the iron box, the photograph, and the stamped reports that could unravel the town’s carefully woven silence. Arjun’s hands tightened on the straps as though he could anchor himself by force. Tara walked beside him, the rain soaking through her jacket, every step heavier than the last.

They had decided: the documents would go to the newspaper office in the district capital. It was far enough that the committee’s reach might falter, yet close enough for the truth to spread quickly. Anonymous, mailed with no return address. The plan felt fragile, like paper boats on a flood, but it was all they had.

Her grandmother had said nothing when they left. She only pressed a folded handkerchief into Tara’s palm and whispered, “Remember, some storms never end.” Tara didn’t know if it was a warning or a blessing.

That night, before leaving, they sat one last time in front of the radio. The storm roared above, lightning flashing white through the shutters. Tara clicked on the recorder app and leaned forward.

“Tell us what we need to know,” she whispered.

The static rose, violent, then steadied into a voice unlike the others—layered, as if a dozen spoke at once.

“…this is the last… the last broadcast…”

Arjun flinched. Tara scribbled, her pen tearing the paper.

“…truth is ready… but danger is near… they know you… they follow…”

Her breath caught. “Who’s following us?”

“…the ones who lit lanterns… still alive… still watching…”

Arjun cursed under his breath. “They know we found the box.”

The voice surged louder. “…don’t be afraid… rain carries us… finish it, Tara, finish what she began…”

Her pen slipped. “Who?” she whispered.

“…your mother…”

The static shrieked, then cut off so suddenly the silence rang like a scream.

Tara sat frozen, the notebook trembling in her hands. Arjun stared at her, his face pale. “Your mother?”

Her throat tightened. “They said she died in an accident.”

Arjun’s voice was hoarse. “What if it wasn’t?”

The house groaned under the storm, and Tara knew the walls remembered more than she could bear.

They left before dawn, the town still heavy with rain. The road to the capital stretched long and half-flooded. They pedaled their cycles side by side, backpacks slapping against their backs. Every splash of water sounded like footsteps behind them.

At the edge of town, headlights flared. A black jeep crawled slowly past, its windows tinted. Tara’s stomach twisted. The men inside didn’t roll down their glass, but she felt their gaze sweep across her skin like ice.

Arjun whispered, “They know.”

Her pulse hammered. “Then we ride faster.”

They reached the railway crossing just as the barriers lowered. The train thundered past, spraying mist and noise. Tara glanced back. The jeep had stopped at the far end of the road, watching.

When the train cleared, the road ahead stretched empty. Arjun leaned closer, his breath ragged. “We won’t make it if we keep to the road. We need another way.”

“There’s the old canal path,” Tara said quickly. “Through the fields. They won’t risk their jeep there.”

They veered off, tires slipping on wet soil. The canal path twisted through fields of drowned rice, frogs croaking in the pools. The rain thickened, blinding, but they pushed harder.

By nightfall, they reached a small bus stop on the outskirts of the capital. They collapsed onto the bench, clothes plastered to their skin. Tara unzipped the backpack, checked the papers. Dry. Safe.

Arjun stared at them, his eyes haunted. “If this goes out, my father’s name will be everywhere. People will spit on us.”

Tara touched his hand. “And people will finally know who stole their children. That matters more.”

His jaw tightened, but he didn’t pull away.

Before they left the bus stop, Tara switched on the radio one last time. She had carried it in the basket of her cycle, absurd and heavy, because she couldn’t bear to leave it behind. Now, under the tin roof of the shelter, it hissed to life.

The static was faint, weak, as though distance had thinned it. But a voice emerged, low and clear.

“…this is the last broadcast… no more storms after this… our voices rest if truth walks free…”

Tara’s throat burned. “We’ll do it. I promise.”

The voice softened, almost like rain fading. “…then goodbye, Tara… goodbye, Arjun…”

The static died. For the first time, the radio was silent—truly silent.

They sat staring at it, the emptiness heavier than noise.

The next morning, they found the nearest post office. Tara slid the envelope of documents across the counter, her heart pounding. No names, no return address. The clerk stamped it and dropped it into the outgoing bag without a glance.

It was done.

But as they stepped back onto the road, Tara saw another jeep parked across the street, men in raincoats leaning against it. Their eyes met hers.

Arjun stiffened. “They’re not done with us.”

She clutched the handkerchief her grandmother had given her, damp now but still folded. The rain pattered steadily, as if waiting.

“The last broadcast is over,” she whispered. “But the storm isn’t.”

 

Part 10: When the Storm Breaks

The rain did not stop. It came down in sheets, rattling the tin roofs of the capital, flooding the streets until rickshaws floated like toys. Tara and Arjun stood at the edge of the post office lane, the envelope already gone, truth sealed and sent away. But the men in raincoats hadn’t moved. They leaned against their jeep, watching with the patience of hunters.

“We should go,” Arjun whispered.

“Where?” Tara asked.

“Anywhere but here.”

They pushed their cycles through narrow lanes, cutting between stalls, dodging puddles. But every time Tara glanced back, she saw the same jeep a few turns behind, headlights glowing faintly in the mist.

By dusk they had reached the railway station. The concourse was half-empty, filled with stranded travelers waiting for trains delayed by floods. Tara gripped the handlebars of her cycle so tightly her knuckles ached.

“They won’t follow us in here,” Arjun muttered, though his eyes betrayed doubt.

Tara looked around. A loudspeaker crackled, announcing another delay. The smell of wet clothes and diesel clung to the air. For a moment, she almost felt safe. Then she saw them—two men in raincoats, standing by the ticket counter, pretending to read the schedule board.

“They’re here,” she whispered.

Arjun swore under his breath. “We need to lose them.”

They slipped onto the platform, weaving through crowds of passengers. A freight train groaned on the far track, its cars stretching endlessly. Tara spotted a gap where two wagons nearly touched, just wide enough.

“This way,” she hissed, pulling Arjun. They ducked between the cars, hearts hammering, until they emerged on the service road behind the station.

For a few precious minutes, there was no jeep, no raincoats, just the steady roar of water on corrugated metal.

Arjun bent over, gasping. “We can’t keep running forever.”

Tara wiped rain from her eyes. “We don’t have to. The documents are gone. The press will have them by morning.”

“But what about us?” he asked, voice breaking. “What if they silence us before then?”

She swallowed hard. “Then we trust the rain to carry the rest.”

That night, they hid in a lodge near the bus depot, a dim room with peeling paint and a single bulb. Tara set the old radio on the table. She hadn’t meant to bring it this far, but she couldn’t imagine leaving it behind.

Arjun gave a hollow laugh. “You really think it’ll talk again?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted.

They sat in silence, the storm pressing against the thin walls. Then, as if answering, the radio crackled alive. Tara jolted forward.

The voice was faint, fading in and out like breath. “…you did it… truth walks… but storm not over… they’ll come…”

Her skin prickled. “What do we do?”

“…stand when storm breaks… don’t run… rain remembers…”

The static hissed, then died.

Arjun stared at the silent box. “They want us to stay?”

Tara clenched her fists. “They want us to face it.”

The knock came at midnight. Heavy, deliberate. Tara and Arjun froze, their hearts beating in unison.

Another knock. Louder.

Arjun whispered, “We can slip out the back.”

But Tara shook her head. The words echoed: Don’t run.

She walked to the door, her hand trembling on the handle. When she opened it, three men stood there in dark raincoats, water dripping from their shoulders. The tallest stepped forward.

“You have something that doesn’t belong to you,” he said. His voice was calm, cold.

Tara met his gaze. “It never belonged to you either. It belongs to the dead.”

For the first time, uncertainty flickered in his eyes.

Behind them, the storm swelled. A sudden gust tore the shutters open, rain slamming into the room. The radio, still on the table, burst into violent static. The men turned toward it instinctively.

“…murderers… liars… we see you…”

The voice was louder than it had ever been, dozens layered together, echoing like a chorus. The walls shook, the bulb flickered wildly.

“…your lanterns can’t hide you… the rain carries our faces…”

The tallest man stumbled back. One of the others muttered a curse, crossing himself.

Arjun stepped forward, his voice fierce. “You hear that? They’re not silent anymore.”

The static rose into a piercing wail. The men fled into the corridor, the door slamming behind them.

Tara sank to her knees, shaking. Arjun caught her, his arms tight around her. “It’s over,” he whispered, though they both knew the storm outside had only just begun.

By morning, the story was everywhere. Controlled Flood Release—Twelve Children Dead. Documents Reveal Town Cover-up. Newspapers sold out in hours. Radios carried the news across the district. The committee’s names were printed in black ink, undeniable, unerasable.

At school, whispers swelled into roars. Teachers avoided eye contact. Students pointed at the photograph reprinted in the paper. Arjun’s father’s face was there, unmistakable.

Arjun didn’t come to class. Tara sat alone, her notebook open, her pen idle. For the first time in weeks, the old radio was silent.

That evening, she found Arjun by the banyan tree. He looked hollow, his eyes red.

“My father’s been arrested,” he said flatly.

Tara’s heart twisted. “I’m sorry.”

He shook his head. “Don’t be. He made his choices. But now… my family will never forgive me.”

She stepped closer. “You didn’t betray them. You saved us all.”

For a moment, the storm held its breath. Then he whispered, “Do you think the voices will stop now?”

Tara looked at the sky, where clouds were thinning, streaks of light breaking through. “Maybe. Or maybe they’ll always be here, reminding us.”

He gave a faint smile. “Like rain.”

They stood together as the first rays of sun pierced the clouds, rain still dripping from the leaves. The storm had broken, but its memory remained, etched into every drop.

And in the silence that followed, Tara could almost hear the faintest echo—thank you—before it was gone.