Chapter 1 The Vanishing Flute
The morning sun wasn't rising over Mangalore so much as dragging the humidity up with it.
By the time Raghava Cholan finished his second sip of tea, the air had already turned heavy, clinging to skin and fabric alike. The coastal city smelled like wet asphalt, frying spices, jasmine crushed underfoot, and diesel exhaust that never quite left. Somewhere down the street, a bus backfired, followed immediately by a chorus of horns that had nothing to do with traffic and everything to do with impatience.
Raghava sat on a plastic stool outside a chai stall that had survived long enough to stop caring about appearances. The stool was cracked down the middle, threatening to fold inward if anyone shifted their weight too suddenly. Raghava didn't move.
The glass of tea in his hand was too hot.
He welcomed the burn.
The heat helped.
He took another sip and grimaced.
"Too much sugar," he muttered. "Not enough ginger."
Raghava set the glass down on the wobbly metal table and tapped his copper ring against its rim.
Clink.Clink.Clink.
He stopped.
The street noise rushed back in around the gap.
It wasn't new. It hadn't been urgent until recently.
He stopped tapping.
The absence of the sound felt louder than the street.
"Raghava Cholan?"
The voice cut cleanly through the noise. Not raised. Not rushed. Out of place.
Raghava didn't look up right away. He swirled the remaining tea, watching the darker sediment spiral slowly at the bottom of the glass.
"That depends," he said at last. "If this is about Mrs. D'Souza's plumbing again, tell her the pipes aren't haunted. They're misaligned. If she fixes the joints, the noise stops."
There was no laugh.
Raghava glanced up.
The man standing there wore a charcoal suit that had no business being worn in this weather. He'd removed his tie, but everything else about him suggested habit rather than comfort. His posture was balanced, alert. His eyes scanned the street before returning to Raghava, measuring distance, angles, exits.
"I'm not here about the plumbing," the man said. He pulled a metal chair from a nearby table and sat without asking. "I'm Arjun Shetty. RAW."
Raghava raised an eyebrow.
"That's a bold introduction for a chai stall."
"I'm a liaison," Arjun said, producing a thin manila folder and placing it on the table between them. He didn't let go of it. "I've been asked to observe."
Raghava smiled faintly.
"Observe usually means babysit."
Arjun didn't disagree.
"You're listed as an unconventional consultant," Arjun continued. "Acoustic specialist. Pattern analyst. The report says you notice inconsistencies others ignore."
"The report flatters me," Raghava said. "What it means is I don't trust explanations that arrive too quickly."
Arjun slid the folder closer.
"We have a situation the local police don't consider urgent."
Raghava's fingers hovered over the folder but didn't open it.
"What kind of situation?"
"A restorer on Kadamba Street claims something vanished from his workshop overnight."
"Stolen?"
"No."
"Lost?"
"No."
Raghava finally looked at the folder.
"What vanished?"
"A flute."
The word landed heavier than it should have.
Raghava's ring stilled against the table.
"Aadhish Rao," Arjun added. "The room was locked. Sealed. No signs of entry. No other items disturbed."
Silence pressed in around them, threading itself through the noise of the street.
"And he thinks?" Raghava asked.
Arjun hesitated. Just long enough to matter.
"He says it wasn't taken," Arjun replied. "He says it was called."
Raghava exhaled slowly.
In a city this loud, silence rarely went unnoticed. When it did, it usually meant something had learned how to move without making a sound.
Raghava stood, dropping a coin onto the table. The metal rang once, clean and sharp.
"Alright," he said. "You can observe."
Arjun rose beside him. "Where are we going?"
Raghava tapped his ring against his thigh, listening to the rhythm settle.
"To see what's missing," he said, stepping into the street, "and whether it left anything behind."