CHAPTER 1

It's summer, and I hardly wake up early… not unless Mom comes to wake me. But she wasn't with me—she was in the village, and I was living alone in the city. I had finished my studies and was just looking for a job.

I’d been trying to call my brother for the past four days, but his phone kept showing switched off. At first, I thought maybe he was just busy with work. But when those four days turned into two weeks, I went to his apartment—the one he moved into three weeks ago.

For the first week, everything seemed fine. He used to call me every day and tell me everything was good. But then suddenly, something changed…

The police came—and left. But no one knows what happened to my brother.

Mom was in a terrible state, crying nonstop. She kept blaming the city—“This city has swallowed my son.” She kept saying, “How many times did I tell him to take that teaching job in the village? But who ever listens to me…”

Her tears just wouldn’t stop… and seeing her cry like that, even my own eyes welled up. Me—someone who never cries. Not even when Dad left us…

But today, that same Shubham was crying.

Life felt so dull and empty without Bhaiya. After he disappeared, I found out he had even paid off Dad’s debts… and was saving money for Mom. He had even bought an insurance policy for himself. But... without a body, the insurance money couldn’t be claimed. And without a body, there couldn’t even be a funeral.

Inspector Sharma said, “If he didn’t go missing on his own, then either it’s a murder… or suicide.”

The moment he said that, I shouted, “My brother can’t commit suicide! Please… find him!”

He replied, “Look, missing kids get searched for—not 26-year-old men. He must’ve gone somewhere on his own. He’ll come back. And if we find a body, we’ll inform you.”

That’s all he said… and then he left. I never saw him again.

Sometimes, I’d get a call—“We’ve found a body in Srinathpur. Come identify it.” I’d go… only to find out it wasn’t my Bhaiya.

But every time I walked away from those morgues, a part of me still held on to hope—that maybe, just maybe… he was still alive.

And that very hope… it made me stronger. Colder, maybe—but stronger. For a whole year, there was no trace of him. I kept living my life—like someone who’d already lost, someone who was empty inside… holding on to just one thing: hope.

One day, I was going through Bhaiya’s computer—reading some of his draft articles. That’s when I came across an old one. The title read: “Hungary Apartment.”

It said that “Anyone who goes there… disappears.”

The address mentioned? It was the exact same place where Bhaiya had been living.

And it was from there… that he vanished.

I sat there, lost in thought. Why did he go there?

Was this part of his work?

You see, Bhaiya used to write articles on paranormal activities. He was always deeply interested in things like that.

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