The clamour of vendors echoed through the cavernous halls of Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus, a symphony of shouts and sizzling delights battling for attention. Mumbai's heart pulsed with frenetic energy, a kaleidoscope of hurried footsteps and impatient honking blending with the rhythmic clang of the announcement board. Vishal sat amidst the chaos, a lone island of stillness in the churning sea of humanity. He clutched his briefcase, knuckles brown, the weight of yesterday's argument heavy in his gut.  

"No way, Vishal," his superior's voice echoed in his mind.  

His frustration was biting him. He was a tall, robust man in his late thirties with a strong jaw and piercing brown eyes. His broad shoulders were set in determination as he stood tense. “I need to handle this at any cost. I’ll go to Visakhapatnam,” he insisted, his deep voice unwavering.  

His boss, Mr. Kumar, an older man with greying hair and a perpetually stern expression, leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled. He epitomized bureaucratic rigidity, with a neatly pressed suit and a nameplate on his desk that read ‘Chief Director.’   

"No. You’ve been out of this department for two years. You belong to telecom, which is on the third floor," he replied, his tone final.  

Vishal’s jaw tightened, the muscles in his neck straining. "Sir, please understand. She was my only colleague here. I should go. You know I can do it," he implored, a note of desperation creeping into his voice, as he mumbled, “She was my friend.”  

Mr. Kumar’s eyes softened slightly, but his resolve remained firm. "No way, Vishal. My team will handle this."  

A spark of defiance flared in Vishal’s eyes. "You know I can do it. I’m the one who caught a serial killer who committed eight murders in a year, not you or your team."  

The room fell silent, the weight of Vishal’s words hanging heavily in the air. Mr. Kumar sighed a deep, weary sound. "I understand your feelings, but rules are rules. I’m sorry."  

"No way. I’m not giving up. Send me, or I’ll go myself. You know I can," Vishal said, his voice a low growl of determination. His broad frame seemed to grow even larger with his resolve, casting a long shadow across the office floor.  

As he recalled the standoff, a flicker of defiance sparked in his eyes. He glanced at the clock – his train to Visakhapatnam was due any minute. He resolved himself to do this, he owed it to his friend.  

As Vishal mulled over his thoughts, a voice, chipper and eager, shattered his reverie. "Good evening, sir! Am I late?"  

Vishal looked up to see a young man, barely out of his teens, standing expectantly, sporting a wide grin and a backpack that screamed ‘amateur adventurer.’  

"No, you're not late," Vishal muttered, suppressing a sigh.  

"Anything I can get you, sir? A chai, maybe? I'm starving myself."  

Lohith's enthusiasm was endearing, yet a touch overwhelming.   

Vishal chuckled softly. “Oh, don’t worry about me. If you disturb me again, I might just leave you behind. And what’s your name?”  

The young man grinned nervously. “I'm Lohith, sir. I'm new here and a big fan of yours.”  

"Good for you, kid," he said, his voice gruffer than intended, "if you don't mind, I prefer to be alone on this trip. Just give me some space, okay? But it’s nice to meet a fan.”  

Lohith's smile faltered slightly, but he recovered quickly. "Sure thing, sir. No worries. I won't bother you."  

The train's arrival announcement blared through the station, a harsh counterpoint to the melodic strains of a nearby guitar player. Vishal shouldered his bags, the weight a familiar comfort. He cast a glance at Lohith, then strode towards the waiting hall door, its brass handles gleaming under the fluorescent lights. As they stepped onto the platform, the bustling crowd enveloped them, a symphony of voices and footsteps echoing against the tiled walls. Vibrant shops lined the edges, their colorful displays tempting passersby with a variety of snacks and trinkets.  

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

The air hung thick with the mingled scents of sweat, disinfectant, and the ever-present aroma of samosas. The platform throbbed with life – families huddled together, businessmen barking into phones, children chasing pigeons. Vishal navigated the throng, walking towards his compartment.  

His compartment was a haven of relative calm. Plush seats, air-conditioned coolness, and a window promising a glimpse of the passing landscape. He settled in, a flicker of satisfaction warming him. A quick scan of the bookstall at the platform yielded nothing interesting, so he resigned himself to watching the urban sprawl give way to verdant fields.  

"Hope no one will interrupt me on this journey. I just want a peaceful, quiet trip," Vishal thought as his eyes wandered to the serene landscape outside the window.  

As the train started to move, he let out a deep breath, feeling his tension ease. The seat opposite him remained blissfully empty. He drew back the curtain, and the bustling station began to fade into the distance. The outskirts of the city unfurled before him, where lush paddy fields stretched endlessly, bathed in the gentle light of dusk. The sun dipped low, sharing the sky with the rising moon, casting a harmonious glow over the fields—a perfect scene for any nature lover.   

In the quiet cabin, Vishal was captivated by the sunlight playing through the window, painting delicate designs on the worn furniture. His mind wandered, lost in thought until the soft creak of the door interrupted him. Vishal turned his gaze from the window, his curiosity piqued.   

The compartment door swung open, shattering the fragile peace. A vision in orange filled the doorway – a young woman, barely out of her teens, with eyes that sparkled with a life force Vishal envied. Her "SWAG LIFE" t-shirt seemed a cruel mockery of his existence.  

"Hi, I'm Varsha," she chirped, a smile lighting up her face as she settled into the berth opposite him. Her attire spoke volumes – a "Friends Forever" band adorned her wrist, an Apple Watch gleamed on her arm, earbuds dangling from her ears. Technology and a zest for life seemed to be her constant companions.  

Her phone buzzed, and she dived into a conversation, most likely with her parents. Vishal, a man who once thrived on human connection, found himself strangely repelled by her vibrancy. When she hung up, he offered a ghost of a smile in return.  

"Sorry about that," she said, her voice bubbly. "Where are you headed, sir?"  

"Visakhapatnam," he replied, his voice barely a whisper.  

"Me too! Though, I'm with my friends in the next cabin. What do you do, sir?"  

"Used to be something," he mumbled, the words tasting like ash in his mouth.   

“I’m a businessman, on my way to Vizag for work,” he replied, picking up a book.  

“Do you enjoy reading? I love books too,” she remarked, her voice carrying a note of genuine interest.   

“Yeah,” he responded curtly, not looking up.   

Varsha understood and didn't push further. She put on her earbuds and closed her eyes.  

After some time, Vishal stepped outside the cabin and stood near the compartment door. The rush of wind swept through his hair as the train thundered along the tracks, yet he remained rooted as if tethered to the earth itself. His gaze wandered over the sprawling landscape, lost in its beauty despite the speed at which it passed.   

The rhythmic clatter of the train lulled Vishal into a deceptive calm, but the Chief Director's words echoed stubbornly in his head: "Promise me you won't make a mess of it." The concession had come later that day, laced with a weary sigh, "Flight tomorrow."  

"Train, sir," Vishal had countered, his voice tight with a longing for escape that etched lines around his eyes. "Uncrowded, if possible."  

"You always have to have your way, don't you?" his boss grumbled.  

"Not my way, sir," Vishal had clarified, the weight of two Mumbai years heavy on his voice. "Just a chance to breathe. The journey itself."  

The Chief Director had relented with a muttered, "Fine. Train ticket by evening."  

The train picked up speed, the wind whipping past him, carrying away the remnants of his conversation. He was lost in thought when a voice startled him.  

"Sir, does my presence bother you? I wouldn't want to intrude." Varsha stood behind him, her two friends peeking out from the next cabin.  

Vishal blinked, surprised. He hadn't meant to be so obvious in his need for solitude. "No, of course not," he mumbled, forcing a smile. "Just... stretching my legs."  

"Great! Then I'll head back to my friends and come over to sleep later. Just please don't lock the door, alright?" She flashed another smile before disappearing back into the next cabin.  

Feeling a pang of guilt, Vishal retreated to his compartment. He fished out a bottle of whiskey and a can of coke from his bag, a travel ritual born from years on the road. Mixing them in a glass, he took a long sip, the familiar sting momentarily soothing his unease.  

Memories flooded back – his wife, her laughter echoing in his ears. Grief, sharp and sudden, punched a hole in his chest. He choked back a sob, the world blurring through a veil of tears. Exhaustion finally claimed him, and he slumped onto the berth, the half-empty glass clutched in his hand.  

He awoke with a jolt, the rhythmic swaying of the train replaced by an unsettling stillness. Disoriented, he scanned the compartment. Everything seemed the same... until his gaze fell on Varsha's berth.  

She was sprawled motionless, an unnatural stillness in her limbs. Her face, drained of colour, was contorted in a silent scream. A single crimson stain bloomed on her orange shirt, a stark contrast to the cheerful message emblazoned across it.  

Vishal's heart hammered against his ribs. This couldn't be real. He must be dreaming. Right?  

It wasn’t a dream. The girl next to him had been brutally murdered.   

He lurched to his feet, the floor tilting beneath him. "Varsha?" he called out, his voice strained.  

There was no reply, just silence, heavy and thick.  

He stayed put, taking in everything around him, trying to make sense of it all.  

Once done with his observations, he closed his eyes with a heavy sigh, a hint of sadness laced over it.   

Emerging into the corridor, he retrieved a cigar, its weight a familiar anchor in his steady hands. With a practiced flick, he ignited it, the flame casting long shadows that danced across his determined features. As he lit it, tendrils of smoke curled lazily around him, a haze mirroring the fog of confusion clouding his thoughts.   

With each drag, he pondered his next move, the bitter taste of uncertainty lingering on his tongue. Eventually, he steeled himself and made his way to the authorities, the click of his footsteps a solemn dirge echoing through the empty corridors of the train.