The rain had turned Mumbai into a blur of headlights, umbrellas, and impatient horns.
At 11:47 p.m., Arjun Mehta, a 32-year-old photographer, stood alone at Dadar station, staring at his phone.
ONE NEW MESSAGE.
«“If you want to know who killed your brother, take the 12:05 local. Come alone.”»
Arjun stopped breathing.
His elder brother, Rohan, had died three years earlier.
The police had called it suicide.
Arjun had never believed them.
Before he could think, another message arrived.
«“Coach 7. Seat 42. Don't trust the man with the red umbrella.”»
Arjun looked around.
Hundreds of people rushed through the station.
And then he saw him.
A tall man.
Black shirt.
Red umbrella.
Standing completely still.
Arjun's heart began pounding.
The 12:05 local arrived with a metallic screech.
He stepped inside.
Coach 7 was almost empty.
Seat 42 was near the window.
Arjun sat down.
For five minutes, nothing happened.
Then an old man entered and sat opposite him.
He looked at Arjun.
Then smiled.
“First time travelling this late?”
Arjun stared at him.
“No.”
The old man nodded.
“Good. Because tonight may be your last.”
Arjun immediately stood.
The old man laughed.
“Relax! I'm joking.”
He opened a packet of samosas.
“Want one?”
Arjun stared at him in disbelief.
“Are you serious?”
“Very. Samosa?”
“No!”
“Your loss.”
The train moved through the darkness.
Then suddenly—
LIGHTS OUT.
The coach went completely black.
Arjun heard footsteps.
One.
Two.
Three.
Someone whispered near his ear—
“Rohan didn't kill himself.”
The lights came back.
The old man was gone.
On the seat was a small envelope.
Arjun opened it.
Inside was a photograph.
It showed Rohan standing outside a luxury hotel.
Beside him was a woman.
Arjun recognised her immediately.
His own wife, Nisha.
His hands began trembling.
Nisha had always told him she had never met Rohan after their wedding.
The photograph was dated two days before Rohan died.
Suddenly his phone rang.
Nisha.
Arjun answered.
“Where are you?” she asked nervously.
“Why?”
“I know what you're doing.”
Arjun froze.
“What do you mean?”
“Come home. Now.”
The call ended.
Arjun looked toward the door.
The man with the red umbrella was standing there.
Watching him.
Arjun ran.
He jumped off the train at the next station and disappeared into the crowd.
He reached home at 1:20 a.m.
The front door was unlocked.
“Nisha?”
No answer.
The apartment was dark.
He switched on the light.
Nisha was sitting on the sofa.
Crying.
“I knew you'd find out eventually,” she whispered.
Arjun's voice shook.
“Tell me the truth.”
She looked at him.
“Rohan wasn't murdered.”
Arjun stared.
“He was trying to expose someone.”
“Who?”
Nisha hesitated.
Then—
“Your father.”
Arjun laughed bitterly.
“My father died twelve years ago.”
“I know.”
She pointed toward the bedroom.
“That's why this is impossible.”
Arjun slowly entered the room.
On the bed was an old suitcase.
Inside were documents, photographs, bank statements...
And a revolver.
Underneath it was a handwritten note.
“Arjun, if you're reading this, I'm already dead.”
He recognised the handwriting.
Rohan.
The note continued:
«“Father didn't die twelve years ago. He disappeared because he discovered a massive financial fraud involving politicians, businessmen and police officers.”»
Arjun looked at Nisha.
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“Because Rohan made me promise.”
Suddenly—
BANG!
A bullet smashed through the window.
Nisha screamed.
Arjun pulled her to the floor.
Someone was shooting from the building opposite.
Then they heard the apartment door opening.
Footsteps.
Someone was inside.
Arjun grabbed the revolver.
A shadow appeared.
He raised the gun.
“Don't shoot!”
The old man stepped into the light.
The samosa man.
Arjun stared.
“You!”
The old man smiled.
“My name is Vikram Mehta.”
Arjun's face went white.
“That... that's my father's name.”
Vikram removed his glasses.
“Hello, son.”
Arjun couldn't move.
“You're alive?”
His father nodded.
“I had to disappear.”
“Rohan knew?”
“Yes.”
“Then why did he die?”
His father's face changed.
“Because he trusted the wrong person.”
Arjun looked at Nisha.
She began crying.
Vikram slowly pointed toward her.
“It was Nisha.”
Arjun stepped backward.
“No.”
“She betrayed Rohan.”
“No!”
“She gave the criminals his location.”
Nisha suddenly laughed.
A strange, cold laugh.
Then she pulled a knife from behind her back.
Vikram fired.
The knife fell.
Nisha collapsed.
Arjun stared at her in horror.
But before he could speak, Vikram said quietly:
“There's one more thing.”
“What?”
Vikram smiled.
“Rohan isn't dead.”
Silence.
Arjun's eyes widened.
“What?”
A voice came from behind him.
“Miss me?”
Arjun turned.
Standing in the doorway was Rohan.
Alive.
Smiling.
Arjun ran toward him and hugged him.
“Everyone thought you were dead!”
Rohan laughed.
“I needed everyone to think that.”
Arjun suddenly pulled away.
“Wait.”
He looked at Rohan.
Then at his father.
Then at Nisha lying on the floor.
Something didn't make sense.
“Then whose body was cremated three years ago?”
Nobody answered.
Arjun's phone suddenly rang.
Unknown number.
He answered.
A distorted voice whispered:
“Congratulations, Arjun.”
His blood froze.
“You've solved the mystery.”
A pause.
“But you've missed the biggest secret.”
“What secret?”
The voice laughed.
Then said:
“There was never a Rohan.”
The call ended.
Arjun slowly looked at the man standing in front of him.
Rohan's smile disappeared.
His face began to change.
He removed a thin mask from his face.
Arjun stared.
It wasn't Rohan.
It was the old man.
The samosa man.
Vikram suddenly raised his gun.
“Welcome to the family, Arjun.”
The lights went out.
And somewhere outside, a train whistle screamed through the darkness.
THE END.
