The sun had barely risen when the Detective arrived quietly at Taraniketan School.
Elsewhere, in Class 11-B, Ms. Jayasree Mukherjee had just entered the classroom. Her red hair gleamed in the morning light, and her silver-rimmed glasses flashed as she smiled at her students.
One of them, a shy girl in the front row, raised her hand hesitantly.
"Ma'am?"
"Yes, dear?" Jayasree replied kindly.
"You look so beautiful... and I really like your tattoo."
The teacher's smile deepened. "Thank you, my dear."
Another student chimed in, "Where did you get it, ma'am?"
She glanced at her wrist—at the black rose inked with curling thorns and the crescent moon nestled within.
"My father made it," she said calmly. "It's part of a very old family tradition."
The room buzzed with curiosity.
"Please tell us your story, ma'am!" several students begged.
But her tone changed—still warm, but firmer. "Sorry, my dears. That's not allowed. It's a family rule. And good students must always listen to their teacher, hmm?"
The entire class went quiet. Too quiet. As if her words carried more weight than they should have.
The students sat straight in their chairs—still, silent, almost robotic.
Meanwhile, beyond the building, the Detective walked through the garden behind the school.
Flowers bloomed neatly in their beds. The broken fountain stood in quiet ruin. A statue of Saraswati overlooked the peaceful area with serene eyes.
But the Detective wasn't here for peace.
She was searching for something.
Her eyes fixed on a patch of soil near the fountain—darker, softer than the rest. Recently disturbed.
She knelt, pulled a small trowel from her coat, and began to dig. The earth gave way, little by little.
Then—a click.
She paused, brushed away more dirt, and uncovered a wooden box. Rusted metal clasp. Twine wound tightly around it.
And burned into its lid—
> A black rose, curled inwards, with a crescent moon in the center.
She rose, dusted off her hands, and dialed Inspector Ratan.
"I found something," she said. "At the garden. I need you here."
Twenty minutes later, Ratan and Raju arrived, breathless from the urgency in her voice.
Ratan stared at the box. "You sure this isn't a trap?"
"It is," she replied. "But it's also the truth."
They opened the box carefully.
Inside—black-and-white photographs, their edges curled and yellowed. Children in school uniforms. A classroom. A teacher's face—scratched out violently.
Then… a torn report card.
Only one name remained legible: Ananya.
Ratan inhaled sharply. "She... studied here? In this school?"
The Detective said nothing. Her eyes were already fixed on the next item.
A cassette tape, old and dusty.
She reached into her bag, pulled out a small player, and pressed play.
A woman's voice crackled through the static—quiet, shaky.
And what it said…
The Detective listened in silence.
But did not speak a word.
Not yet.
---
To be continued...