Swetha took a deep breath, her eyes distant, as if gazing into a past she had long tried to forget.

"When I was in college, I lived with my mother. Life was simple, peaceful—until he came."

Her voice wavered, but she steadied herself.

"The local MLA, a powerful man in the city, set his eyes on me. He was fifty, already married twice, yet he showed up at our home one evening, declaring his so-called love for me. He said he wanted to marry me, as if my life was his to claim."

Reema's eyes widened. "What did your mother say?"

Swetha clenched her fists. "She refused. Without hesitation, without fear. She told him I was not some object to be bought or owned. She told him to leave."

But he didn’t take rejection lightly. With a cruel smile, he said, “If you don’t become mine, I won’t let you live in peace.”

The very next day at college, I was called into the principal’s office. He sat there, unreadable, before dropping a bombshell.

“There’s a serious complaint against you, Swetha. A junior has accused you of ragging and… sexual assault.”

My breath caught in my throat. "What?! That’s a lie! I’ve never—"

The principal leaned back, smirking as if he already knew my reaction. “I suggest you take this matter up with someone who can help.”

“Help?” My voice wavered.

“Yes. The MLA.” He clasped his hands together. “If you agree to marry him, this complaint will disappear. In fact, even if you had done it, no one would dare touch the wife of an MLA. That’s the power you’ll have.”

My stomach twisted in disgust. “And if I refuse?”

His smirk widened. “You have one week. After that, you’ll be expelled. Your name will be in the news. No college will take you. Your future will be ruined.”

Tears blurred my vision as I stumbled back home. My mother, sensing something was wrong, sat beside me and gently tapped my shoulder. “I’m with you. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of this.”

She kissed my forehead and left for the police station to file a complaint against the MLA. But she never returned.

That night, she was found dead in a road accident.

The grief was unbearable, but what happened next shattered me even more.

In our orthodox family, my grandfather was a shaman—a man who could trap wandering souls. On the night of my mother’s funeral, he felt something unusual in the house.

“She’s still here,” he muttered, gripping his ritual staff.

I watched in horror as he began chanting mantras, sealing my mother’s spirit inside a room. His expression was stern, as though he was doing something righteous.

“At dawn, I will destroy her soul and send it back to where it came from,” he declared.

I fell to my knees, pleading. “Grandpa, please! That’s my mother! She’s not a threat!”

He didn’t waver. “A wandering soul has no place in this world, even if she was my daughter.”

I sat outside the sealed room, sobbing. And then—

“Don’t cry, my child.”

My breath hitched. It was her voice. My mother’s voice, coming from within the locked room.

“M-Ma?” My voice trembled.

Her tone was calm, yet filled with an eerie certainty. “Everything will be taken care of. Your problems, your fears… they will all end.”

“How? The MLA will never stop. Grandpa supports his party—he won’t help me. I have no one.”

A silence stretched between us. Then she spoke again.

“That’s why I’m still here. And that’s why he’s coming.”

“He?”

“There is a man who grants the final wishes of wandering souls,” she whispered. “He will go to any extent to fulfill them.”

My pulse quickened. “But… isn’t that what Grandpa does?”

Her voice softened. “His ways are different. This man… his name is—”

A sudden gust of wind blew open the front door.

There he stood.

A man with a striking presence—thick, unruly hair swaying in the breeze, a sharp jawline, piercing eyes that held a quiet storm. Strength radiated from him, yet there was something almost ethereal about his existence.

His gaze locked onto mine.

“Arya,” he said. His voice was deep, unshaken. “I am Arya.”

My mother’s soul stirred. “Give us a moment, my child. Leave the room.”

I hesitated but obeyed, stepping outside. Through a small window, I saw them speak. My mother’s spirit and the mysterious man. But I couldn’t hear what was said.

Minutes later, Arya turned and walked away.

I rushed to my mother’s spirit. “Who is he? What did he say?”

Her voice was filled with a strange peace. “By tomorrow morning, I will no longer be here. I will leave for where I belong.”

“But how?”

She smiled. “You will know soon. Now, sleep.”

That night, exhaustion overtook my fear. I slept, and when I awoke—

She was gone.

Grandpa stormed into the room, disbelief etched on his face. “Impossible. She was completely sealed. There was no way for her to escape.”

I looked at him, unsure of what to say. “Is there any way a soul can be freed from your lock?”

He hesitated before answering, “The only way… is if their unfinished wish has been fulfilled.”

A tense silence filled the room. Then his phone rang.

I watched as his expression shifted from confusion to pure shock.

“What?!” he nearly shouted. His hands trembled as he listened.

The call ended. He turned to me, his face pale. “The MLA… he’s dead. Someone cut his throat last night.”

My heartbeat thundered in my ears.

I knew.

I knew this was Arya’s doing.

Reema's brows furrowed. "But… the man who killed the MLA was a goon. He was arrested and later executed for his crime."

Swetha shook her head, her eyes dark with certainty. "That goon never admitted to the murder. I know it wasn’t him."

Reema's confusion deepened. "Then who?"

Swetha took a deep breath. "Arya. He did it. He made it look like the goon was the killer. He planted all the evidence against him."

Reema stared at her, disbelief flickering in her eyes. "But… how?"

Swetha exhaled. "I don’t know. But I have a feeling… he's not human. He's something else. Like an angel sent by God, living in human form."

Flashback—The Night of the MLA’s Death

The MLA gasped, struggling for air as Arya’s blade sliced cleanly across his throat. Blood spilled, staining the floor beneath him. His eyes widened in horror as he fell, choking on his last breaths.

Arya stood still, watching without emotion. Then, with calculated precision, he bent down and placed the blood-stained knife beside the MLA’s body.

For a brief moment, he glanced at his own hand. A strange shift occurred—the lines on his palm wavered, morphing, changing.

Later, when the police examined the weapon, they found fingerprints embedded in the handle.

But they weren’t Arya’s.

The handprint matched the goon who was later arrested.

The door creaked open.

A goon stepped in, cracking his knuckles. "Made up your mind?"

Swetha’s eyes snapped open. Determined.

She took a step forward. "Take me."

The goon frowned, glancing at his men. "Well, that was easy."

He grabbed her by the arm and yanked her forward.

Reema’s scream broke the air. "Swetha, NO!"

Swetha turned her head slightly, offering the faintest smile. "Don’t worry. Soon, you’ll see a man walk in here… alone. And he will kill them all. His name is Arya."

The door slammed shut behind her.

And then, silence.