Some places call to us.
Not because they appear on a map.
Not because we've read about them in history books.
But because somewhere deep inside, a voice insists that we must go there.
That cave called out to Krishna in that way.
The first time the path appeared in the forests near Chidambaram, nothing about it seemed special to him. Just another cave. Rocks, soil, tangled vegetation. But Radha stopped abruptly. And the moment her steps halted, the place ceased to be ordinary.
"Here…" she said softly.
In that single word lived both a warning and an attraction.
The cave's entrance was narrow. One had to bend to enter. The light dropped suddenly. The air grew cold. Krishna was no stranger to caves like this. Yet the moment he stepped inside, his body felt heavier. Walking wasn't difficult—but the air was different. Not empty. Dense. This wasn't imagination. It was a sensation science could not easily explain.
Radha walked ahead, a small torch in her hand. Its beam swept across the walls, revealing ancient markings. They were unlike temple carvings. Simple shapes—circles, lines, and at the center, a symbol that resembled an egg. Krishna stopped when he saw it.
"This…" he began, but the word never finished.
Radha turned to him. There was clarity in her eyes.
"I feel the same," she said.
As they moved deeper, sound seemed to disappear. Even their footsteps were barely audible. No dripping water. No movement of air. It wasn't natural. Nature always makes some sound. This silence felt artificial.
Krishna's heart began to race—not from fear, but from the anticipation that comes just before encountering something vast.
And there it was.
At the heart of the cave, resting on a small stone pedestal, lay an oval-shaped stone—a mani. It emitted no light. Yet the light around it behaved strangely. When the torch beam touched it, the light seemed to bend. It didn't actually bend—but to Krishna's eyes, it appeared to.
Radha stepped closer. Her fingers trembled slightly—not with fear, but with the excitement of a scientist standing before discovery.
"This is not an ordinary stone," she said.
She needed no proof to say it.
Radha pulled out her notes. A small device meant to measure air vibration began to respond. Numbers shifted into patterns that made no immediate sense.
"It's creating a field," she said.
"But not electrical. Not magnetic."
Her eyes shone brighter.
"It's blocking dark matter interaction."
Krishna didn't fully understand the science. But one thing became unmistakably clear—this stone must never become known to the world.
The markings on the cave walls suddenly made sense. The ancients had not worshipped this as a god. Nor had they treated it as a weapon. They had placed it here as a shield. As protection.
In that moment, Krishna understood something important—not why the stone was here, but why it must never leave this place. If it did, balance would collapse. Someone would seek it. Those who crave power are always many.
"We must tell no one," Radha said.
There was no love in her voice.
No fear either.
Only responsibility.
Krishna agreed. He had always loved his profession. But that day, for the first time, he feared it—because it had led him into danger. Yet he did not step back. Because Radha did not.
When they emerged from the cave, the sunlight outside felt blinding. And yet, even that brightness seemed pale compared to what lay within.
From that day on, Radha changed. Her laughter faded. Her words grew fewer. But her eyes were always observing something. Notes on her phone. Maps. Coordinates.
When Krishna asked, she said,
"This is for our protection."
He didn't ask more. Because she trusted him. And that trust was enough.
Now, sitting in Flat Number 369, staring at the wall, Krishna remembered that cave. The same silence. The same weight. The same feeling.
This wall was not just a wall. It felt like another cave. Something lay hidden within it. Not light—but a void that protected the world.
He did not yet know that the hidden cave was not the last secret his life would open. It was only the first.
That morning had begun very ordinarily.
And that ordinariness was what made it terrifying.
The sky over Chidambaram was covered in clouds. It was unclear whether it would rain. The air felt heavy. Krishna stood in the kitchen making coffee. Radha sat at the table, looking through her notes.
The silence between them was familiar. Lovers don't need words. Being in the same room is enough.
"Today we need to leave a little early," Radha said.
There was urgency in her voice—but no anxiety.
"Why?" Krishna asked.
"There's a meeting at the department. But…"
She stopped. Lifting her coffee cup, she looked at him.
"Something became clear to me last night."
Krishna paused. Whenever Radha spoke like this, he knew it wasn't something small.
"What is it?" he asked.
Radha didn't smile. In her eyes was the same clarity he had seen inside the cave.
"The Krishnakantha Mani isn't just creating a field," she said. "It's holding a balance in place. If it's disturbed… there will be consequences." Her words came slowly. "The land beneath our apartment… it's very close to that cave."
Krishna's chest tightened.
"What are you thinking?" he asked.
Radha closed her notes.
"Nothing yet," she said. "But we need to be careful."
After saying that, she stood up and picked up her bag. Krishna looked at her. He wanted to say something. But the words didn't come. He never imagined that this would be the last morning they would talk together.
They stepped outside. Traffic was light. An ordinary day. Radha was checking something on her phone.
"I'll show you later," she said.
Krishna smiled at her as he drove.
"You'll be late to the office," he said.
She smiled back.
It was a very ordinary smile.
That's why it stayed with him.
That was all.
Suddenly—a sound. Brakes. Screams. The terrible noise of metal colliding with metal. For a moment, Krishna understood nothing. The car spun. His body was thrown forward. Light shattered before his eyes. And then…
Silence.
A silence that was enormous.
When he opened his eyes, there were people all around. Someone was sprinkling water. Someone was speaking into a phone.
"Get the girl out," someone shouted.
"The ambulance is here."
He tried to get up. His body wouldn't respond. But his eyes searched for only one thing.
Radha.
They placed her on a stretcher. Her eyes were closed. A small stain of blood on her face. She looked peaceful. As if she were sleeping. He wanted to call out to her—Radha. But his voice didn't come. That helplessness drove him mad. Why wouldn't his hands move? Why couldn't his eyes scream?
He sat outside the hospital. Hours passed. Time felt as if it had stopped moving. Doctors went in and out. No one looked at him. He understood then—there was nothing left to say. Only one thing remained to be said.
The doctor came out. His face carried a familiar gravity.
"We tried," he said.
Something broke inside Krishna at those words. Someone else said, "They tried." But Krishna didn't hear it. He heard only one thing—
Radha was gone.
From that day on, his life stopped inside a room. Not a room in the hospital. A room inside him. He left Chidambaram. The apartment remained empty. Flat Number 369 was locked. It took six months for that lock to open again. Six months in which he pretended to be alive.
Now, sitting by the wall and speaking to Janaki, that day returns to him. But he never told her the whole story. Janaki had fallen asleep. The story she heard ended there. He believed she had heard it all.
But she had heard only half.
Krishna still does not know that the accident was not merely an accident. That the day was not random. But what happened then is connected to the story on the other side of the wall—and fate will slowly reveal it to him.
That night, in Flat Number 369, the wall was very silent.
But that silence…
was the silence before a storm.