Rain drummed softly against the hotel window.
Kaizen and Lyra sat together on the couch, the room dim except for the light of the television.
A news anchor's voice echoed through the screen — calm, practiced, but heavy.
"Another tragic murder in South Kolkata.
The victim, Ahiri Dey, aged twenty-two, was a well-known indie music composer.
The killer left no fingerprints, only a symbol — a spiral mark drawn in red paint near the body.
Police believe it's connected to the same psycho responsible for the death of Simi Manna."
Lyra lowered the remote slowly.
"…That's the same guy, isn't it?"
Kaizen didn't answer. His eyes were fixed on the TV screen — the photo of the girl smiling with a guitar in hand.
For a moment, the world seemed to blur.
He had seen that smile before.
But where?
The answer hit him like a thunderclap.
The canvas.
The seven-foot-tall unfinished canvas in his Tokyo apartment — the half-drawn face that even he couldn't explain.
It was her.
Lyra touched his arm. "Kaizen? What's wrong?"
He blinked. "That girl… I've drawn her before."
Lyra frowned. "You mean… as reference?"
He shook his head. "No. I never met her. But her face — it's on my painting. I drew her months ago."
Later that day — At Ahiri's House
The old neighborhood smelled of rain and soil. Kaizen and Manajit stood before the small apartment, police tape fluttering across the gate.
A lone constable guarded the door but recognized Manajit — who still had contacts in local journalism — and let them in briefly.
Inside, the air was stale, filled with faint traces of perfume and dust.
A wall full of music notes, scribbled lyrics, and cassette tapes.
A piano — its last melody frozen mid-sheet.
Kaizen walked quietly around, eyes tracing the details.
A diary lay open on the desk, half-soaked by rain leaking through the ceiling.
The last page read:
"A stranger with red eyes came in my dreams again.
I don't know who he is, but he feels… sad."
Kaizen froze.
The words felt like they were written for him.
He turned the page, but it was blank.
"Kaizen," Manajit said softly, "you okay?"
"Yeah," Kaizen replied. "Just… thinking."
They stepped outside, the wind sharp and cold. The cemetery was nearby, and Kaizen insisted on visiting it.
At the Graveyard
The cemetery was quiet, the sky heavy with rain.
Kaizen walked slowly along the stone paths, Lyra and Manajit a step behind him.
He stopped in front of one small, simple gravestone:
Ahiri Dey (2012–2032)
Kaizen crouched slightly, placing a single white flower on the ground.
He didn't speak. He didn't need to.
Something about the name, the dates… the girl's existence — it tugged at a memory he couldn't place.
A chill ran down his spine, subtle but insistent.
Lyra watched him quietly. She didn't ask questions. She only felt the weight of his gaze on the gravestone, calm yet heavy, as if he were remembering something that hadn't happened yet.
Manajit's voice broke the silence softly: "She was twenty-two…"
Kaizen nodded, letting his hand linger on the flower. "Yes. And somehow… familiar."
A moment passed.
Kaizen stood slowly, his eyes never leaving the gravestone.
There was no panic. No scream. Only the faintest tightening in his chest — a thread connecting past, present, and something he couldn't yet understand.
The three of them walked back toward the car in silence. Rain fell softly, tapping the umbrella above Lyra's head.
Manajit finally said, "Kaizen… I've always wondered. That name you go by — it isn't your real one, is it?"
Kaizen glanced at him, half-smiling. "No. My real name… I left it in India. Changed it when I moved to Japan. A new life.
But maybe… it's not the past I ran from. Just the one I didn't want to face yet."
Manajit said nothing. Words weren't necessary.
Kaizen looked once more toward the small gravestone fading in the distance.
Somewhere deep inside, he felt the threads of fate tugging at him, pulling together: the red thread, the spiral mark, and now this girl.
A quiet voice whispered in his mind — faint, familiar, impossible to place:
"Long time no see."
Kaizen's lips pressed into a thin line.
Rain dripped down his hair.
He took a steady breath, as if bracing for the storm he knew was coming.
And with that, the three turned toward the car, walking into the grey, wet afternoon, leaving the graveyard and its secrets behind — for now.
──────────────────────────────
Follow & Support the Creator
Art by: @senpai_high
Author: @october.days_
Official: @september_days_official
Gmail: [email protected]
──────────────────────────────