As the hours passed, the old man’s tale wove itself around Anya like a shroud, each revelation pulling her deeper into the web of her grandmother’s life. It wasn’t just a story of betrayal—it was a story of sacrifice, of choices made in the face of impossible odds. Anya’s heart ached as she thought of her grandmother, alone in her final days, carrying the weight of a secret that had cost her everything.
But Anya wasn’t ready to leave without answers. Not yet.
“Where do I begin?” she asked, her voice steady but laced with determination. “If I want to find out what happened… where do I start?”
The old man sighed, his eyes heavy with the weight of years. “The past is a dangerous place, child. Once you start digging, you may not like what you find.”
Anya met his gaze, her resolve unwavering. “I have to know.”
For a long moment, the old man was silent. Then, with a resigned nod, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, tarnished key. “There’s an old chapel on the edge of the village,” he said quietly. “No one goes there anymore. But your grandmother… she spent a lot of time there before she disappeared. If you’re looking for answers, that’s where you’ll find them.”
Anya took the key, her fingers trembling as she wrapped them around the cold metal. The weight of the moment settled on her, the enormity of what she was about to uncover pressing down on her shoulders. But there was no turning back now.
With a final nod of thanks, she left the old man’s house and stepped back into the village’s eerie stillness. The wind had picked up, and the sky was darkening with the approach of evening. But Anya felt no fear. Instead, a strange calm washed over her as she walked toward the edge of the village, toward the crumbling chapel that held the key to her grandmother’s past.
The chapel stood in ruins, its stone walls cracked and weathered by time. Vines crept along its edges, and the windows had long since shattered, leaving jagged edges like broken teeth. Anya hesitated for a moment, the key heavy in her hand. Then, with a deep breath, she stepped forward and unlocked the door.
Inside, the air was thick with dust, the silence oppressive. But as her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she saw something that made her heart stop.
In the centre of the chapel, beneath the altar, was a small chest. The very chest her grandmother had kept locked in her room all those years.
Anya knelt, her hands shaking as she opened the chest. Inside, beneath layers of old cloth and faded papers, was a single object: a book. Its leather cover was worn, and the pages yellowed with age. But as she opened it, her breath caught in her throat.
The pages were filled with symbols—ancient, intricate symbols she had never seen before. And beneath them, in her grandmother’s familiar handwriting, were notes. Notes about the knowledge she had protected, about the truth she had hidden from the world.
And then, at the very end, a single line that sent chills down Anya’s spine:
“The truth is not a burden we bear lightly. But it is one we must carry to the end.”
Anya’s journey had only just begun. ( TO BE CONTINUED)
Rajat Chandra Sarmah
20/09/2024
Guwahati , Assam , India
Mail ID: rajatchandrasarmah@gmail.com
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