The London night was quiet, but John's mind buzzed as if the old publishing house were racing toward a deadline. He sat in his cramped office, surrounded by boxes that smelled of dust and old memories. On the desk before him lay a folder labeled "Personal. Edward Coplestone," and beside it — the two yellowed envelopes that had turned his world upside down. His grandfather's words, scrawled in small, nearly illegible handwriting, echoed in his mind: "Tantric rituals, Varanasi, 1963. Meeting with Shri Devi." John rubbed his temples, trying to gather his thoughts. What kind of book had his grandfather been trying to write? And why was it dangerous?
The desk lamp's dim light fell on the pages, illuminating the yellowed paper. John turned another page in the folder. There was a draft of an article, unfinished, with crossed-out lines. "Tantra is not merely physical," his grandfather had written. "It is an art that unites body, mind, and soul. But knowledge of it can open doors better left closed." John frowned. This didn't sound like the notes of a publisher but the diary of someone standing on the edge of something incomprehensible. A chill ran down his spine, not from the cold in the room but from the thought that his grandfather had hidden something significant — perhaps from everyone, even family.
John leaned back in his chair, his gaze drifting to the ceiling. Lucy. Her words from dinner gnawed at him. She knew more than she let on, but why? Her nervous movements, the trembling of her fingers, that look when she mentioned his grandfather… It wasn't just nostalgia. She was hiding something, and John couldn't decide if he wanted to uncover it. Her offer to help with the project seemed sincere, but there was an undertone he couldn't decipher. Did she really want to save his publishing house? Or was she pursuing her own agenda?
He picked up a photograph from the folder. In it, a younger version of his grandfather, stern-faced, stood beside a group of people in some exotic location. Behind them loomed sandy hills and intricately carved stone structures — possibly India. One figure caught John's eye: a woman in a sari, her long dark hair cascading over her shoulders. Her face was partially shadowed, but her eyes stared directly at the camera, as if she knew that one day John would hold this photograph. On the back was written: "Varanasi, 1963. Shri Devi."
John's pulse quickened. Shri Devi. The name from his grandfather's notes. Who was she? And why had his grandfather warned of danger? He flipped through more pages, hoping for something more concrete. Among the papers, he found a letter addressed to his grandfather, unsigned. "Edward," it read, "you've gone too far. Stop before it's too late. Some things are not meant for books." John's throat went dry. This wasn't just a project. It was something that had scared his grandfather — a man who, in John's memories, never feared anything.
A sudden knock at the door shattered the silence. John flinched, nearly dropping the folder. Who could be here at two in the morning? He stood, cautiously approached the door, and peered through the peephole. Standing on the landing was Kate, his assistant from the publishing house. Her blonde hair was disheveled, and her eyes gleamed with excitement.
"John, I know it's late, but I need to talk to you," she said when he opened the door.
"Kate? What are you doing here?" John stepped aside to let her in. She wore a light coat, thrown on in a hurry, and clutched a small folder.
"I couldn't sleep," Kate replied, tossing her coat over the back of the couch. "After you let me go early, I went home, but… something wouldn't let me rest. I went back to the office and found something in the archives."
John's heart raced again. Kate was always meticulous, but late-night visits weren't her style. She placed the folder on the desk next to his grandfather's papers. The cover read: "Notes of E. Coplestone, 1960–1965."
"I know you told me not to touch those boxes, but…" Kate hesitated, though her voice remained firm. "There was something about India. And about a book your grandfather never published."
John took the folder, his palms damp with anticipation. He opened it and saw pages filled with his grandfather's small handwriting, this time accompanied by illustrations — sketches of temples, symbols, and figures in ritualistic poses. One page was dedicated to tantric practices. "Tantra is a path to the divine through union," his grandfather wrote. "But in Varanasi, I realized not all rituals are meant for outsider eyes. Shri Devi warned me: knowledge can become a curse."
"What does this all mean?" Kate asked softly, looking at John. Her voice was gentle, but it carried a note of unease. She stood close, and John caught the faint herbal scent of her shampoo, a contrast to the heavy smell of old paper.
"I don't know," John admitted, looking away. "But it seems my grandfather was trying to write a book about… sexual traditions of different cultures. And something stopped him."
Kate stepped closer, peering over his shoulder at the pages. Her hand brushed his arm, and John felt the warmth of her palm but quickly stepped back, trying to focus on the text. Kate either didn't notice the gesture or pretended not to.
"There's more," she said, flipping through the pages. "A letter from someone named Ajay Rathod. He writes that he's waiting for your grandfather in Varanasi for a 'second meeting.' But that never happened, did it?"
John shook his head. He couldn't recall his grandfather ever mentioning trips to India, but now it seemed Edward Coplestone had led a double life. A publisher of novels and biographies by day, a secretive researcher delving into forbidden knowledge by night. John felt a pang of envy — and fear. What if he wasn't ready for this?
"Are you thinking of going there?" Kate asked, her voice almost a whisper. She looked at him with a mix of curiosity and concern. "To India, I mean."
John sighed. He didn't have an answer. The letters promised funding, a chance to save the publishing house, but his grandfather's warnings about danger rang like a caution. And yet… Varanasi called to him. Not just for the book, but for the sense that the truth about his grandfather — and perhaps himself — lay thousands of kilometers away.
"I need to think about it," he said finally. "But first, I want to know more. About my grandfather, about this Shri Devi, about everything."
Kate nodded, but her gaze lingered on him a moment longer than necessary. She gathered her things but paused at the door.
"John," she said softly, "be careful. If your grandfather stopped, he probably had a reason."
She left, leaving John alone with the archives. He returned to the desk, where the photograph of Shri Devi lay. Her eyes, even in the old snapshot, seemed alive, as if she knew he'd one day trace her path. John felt a strange premonition stirring in his chest — a mix of fear and curiosity. He took a blank sheet of paper and began writing a plan. First item: "Contact Ajay Rathod, if he's still alive." Second: "Learn about Varanasi." Third: "Figure out Lucy."
Lucy. Her name surfaced in his thoughts again, along with the scent of her perfume and the tremor in her voice. She knew more than she was saying, and John was certain her dinner invitation hadn't been random. But what was she hiding? And why was she so insistent he take on this project?
When they'd parted ways months ago, John had felt like his life was over. Endless failures at the publishing house, the uncertainty and instability of the future — they pressed in from all sides. Lucy had been the only thing he could lean on, but as it often happens, she left first, and he hit rock bottom.
As painful as it was, he'd had to pick himself up, to mimic some semblance of normal life to avoid dissolving into the backdrop of the publishing house's long-worn walls. He didn't understand why he kept going, but he did. And now she'd reached out again.
Of course, his heart still held feelings for her, but why… Why now, what were her motives? It didn't make things any easier.
"Do women always have to be this complicated?" he muttered. Nothing was ever simple.
Simplicity. That's what John craved most right now. On the other hand, she'd come to him…
The night dragged on, but John didn't feel tired. His grandfather's archives lay before him like a map to an uncharted world. Amid all these events, a spark of enthusiasm had awakened in him, unnoticed even by himself. That same childlike, bright, and wonderfully exhilarating feeling of discovering something new and unknown. Somewhere out there, in Varanasi, Shri Devi — or at least her legacy — awaited. Along with a heap of secrets and mysteries that had barged into his life uninvited.
And John knew that, despite all his doubts, he wouldn't be able to stop. Not now, when he was so close to answers.