The prison courtyard was gray with drizzle. A dozen inmates shuffled across the yard during their brief hour of freedom, most with cigarettes clamped between their lips. Professor Birju stood apart, his frail frame hunched against the damp wind. He was not built for this place. His spectacles fogged, his clothes hung loosely, and his spirit sagged beneath the weight of chains no one could see.
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Three months had passed since the trial. Yet the memory of that evening in the graveyard remained carved into his mind, sharper than any blade. He could still smell the blood, still see the knife, still feel the sudden chill when the girl had dissolved into smoke.
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“Professor,” a voice called.
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He turned. It was Inspector Rao, the very man who had overseen his arrest. Rao stood at the edge of the yard, arms folded, expression unreadable. He beckoned.
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Reluctantly, Birju followed the guard who escorted him to the office. Rao sat behind a desk cluttered with files. He lit a cigarette, exhaled slowly, and studied the professor.
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“You’ve been quiet,” Rao said. “No fights. No trouble. Just… existing. Why?”
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Birju gave a weary smile. “What else can I do? You have already written my fate.”
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The inspector leaned forward. “Tell me again. About that night.”
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Birju’s eyes widened. “Will you finally listen?”
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“Humor me.”
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Birju repeated every detail: the fading sunlight, the graveyard’s silence, the girl standing over the body, the way she turned and dissolved into smoke. His voice grew thick with desperation. “I swear, Inspector, I did not kill that man. Something else was at work that night.”
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For a long while, Rao said nothing. Then he leaned back and stubbed his cigarette. “You know what your problem is, Professor? You tell the truth, but it sounds like madness. Ghosts, smoke, vanishing girls—what judge will believe such a thing?”
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Birju lowered his gaze. “I don’t need the court to believe me. I just need someone to help me prove it.”
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Something in his tone must have struck a chord, because Rao didn’t dismiss him outright. Instead, he asked, “Suppose I gave you a chance. Suppose, against my better judgment, I let you out—temporarily. What would you do?”
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“I would find the truth,” Birju said firmly. “I would prove that I am innocent. But more than that—I would uncover who that girl was, and why she appeared to me.”
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The inspector drummed his fingers on the desk. “You realize how insane this sounds.”
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“Yes. But insanity is sometimes the doorway to truth.”
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Rao studied him a moment longer. Then, with a sigh, he said, “Fifteen years is a long time. If you want me to believe you even a little, you’ll need more than words. You’ll need evidence.”
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Birju leaned forward eagerly. “Give me twenty days. That’s all I ask. Twenty days of freedom, and I will bring you proof.”
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Rao’s eyes narrowed. “If I let you go and you run, I will be ruined.”
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“I am an old man,” Birju said. “Where will I run? What will I do? My only wish is to clear my name before death claims me. Please.”
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The inspector lit another cigarette, inhaled deeply, and then muttered, “You’re a fool, Professor. But perhaps… a useful fool.”
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Birju felt a flicker of hope ignite in his chest. For the first time since his arrest, the chains of despair loosened slightly.
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That night, back in his cell, he lay awake staring at the cracked ceiling. His mind churned. Who was the girl? She couldn’t have been ordinary. Her presence had frozen the air, her disappearance had defied nature. Was she truly a ghost? And if so, why appear before him, and why leave him with the blame?
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He pressed his palms together, whispering to himself, “Niru…”
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The name slipped out before he realized it. It had been decades since he’d last spoken it, yet it came unbidden, like a memory clawing its way back from the grave. He shut his eyes, and for a fleeting second, he saw her—Niru, young and radiant, her laughter bright as the monsoon rains.
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But that was impossible. Niru had died long ago.
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Still, the face of the mysterious girl in the graveyard haunted him with a resemblance he couldn’t ignore.
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The following week, Birju was summoned again. This time, Rao handed him a folded slip of paper. “Your petition has been considered,” he said. “Against my own instincts, I am allowing you temporary release. Twenty days. That’s all you get. Fail to return, and you will be hunted like an animal. Understand?”
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Birju nodded vigorously. “Thank you, Inspector. You won’t regret this.”
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“See that I don’t.”
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The paperwork was signed in secrecy, and one cold morning, Birju walked out of the prison gates. The outside world looked strangely new—sky wider, trees greener, air freer. Yet his chest felt heavy with the task ahead.
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He had twenty days.
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Twenty days to solve a mystery that belonged more to the world of shadows than to men.
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His feet carried him instinctively toward the forest. Beyond the dense trees lay the hermitage of his old guru, the one man who had once spoken of realms beyond the reach of science. Birju had abandoned those teachings long ago, choosing formulas and laboratories over mantras and rituals. But now, stripped of reason, he had nowhere else to turn.
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As the sun dipped, the forest came alive with sounds of crickets and distant owls. Birju pushed through the undergrowth, his heart pounding with both fear and anticipation.
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At last, in a clearing lit by the fading glow of dusk, he saw the hut—simple, smoke rising from its chimney, a place untouched by time.
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And standing at its door was the man himself. The guru. Older now, hair white as snow, but eyes still burning with the same strange fire.
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“Birju,” the guru said softly, as though he had been expecting him. “So… the spirits have finally come for you.”
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Birju fell to his knees. “Master, I need your help. I saw her. A girl who vanished like smoke. I was condemned for murder. But I know—this is not of the living world.”
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The guru nodded slowly. “Then you are ready. The path ahead will not be of science, but of shadows. To find your answers, you must step where the living rarely tread.”
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Birju lifted his gaze. “Where must I go?”
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The guru’s eyes gleamed. “To the Negative World.”
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will be deducted 
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