Chapter 1 – The Wedding That Never Was

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📖 Chapter 1 – The Wedding That Never Was

The day had begun with golden light and the sound of temple bells.

Tom’s wedding was the talk of the town. Strings of marigolds swung lazily in the humid air, incense spiraled in soft smoke, and the chatter of relatives filled the courtyard. Women in bright sarees laughed, men in suits sweated under the sun, and somewhere behind the curtains the bride waited, her hands trembling with anticipation.

Tom’s father, a proud man with silver hair and a voice that carried across the garden, moved among the guests, greeting, laughing, keeping everything in order. For him, this day was not only about tradition—it was about family honor, a moment he had long waited for.

Tom himself stood at the entrance, nervous yet glowing, his white sherwani embroidered with golden thread, the ceremonial turban slightly tilted on his head. His friends teased him, photographers clicked endlessly, and the scent of roses mixed with ghee lamps. He should have been happy. He should have been safe.

But beyond the laughter and music, something else moved.

At the edge of the crowd, half-hidden by the shade of a banyan tree, stood a man no one wished to notice. His skin was raw, pitted with burns that seemed to smoke faintly in the heat. His left cheek sagged as though melted candle wax had frozen there. His hands, wrapped in dirty cloth, twitched constantly, as if suppressing unbearable pain. His eyes glowed red—not with love, but with hunger.

This was not a guest.

This was a shadow carrying a plague inside him.

He coughed once, and a small spray of acid burned through the bark of the tree. He whispered to himself, a mantra of madness:

"He is the cure. He must be mine. Before the vows, before the fire, before the gods bind him to another… he must belong to me."

No one saw him slip through the servants’ entrance. No one questioned the large wicker fruit basket he dragged behind, its cloth cover heavy and damp. Bananas, papayas, and apples hid the darkness within.

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Tom had just stepped away from the ceremony for a moment of quiet. The bride’s brothers teased him too much, the noise made his head ache, and he needed air. In the garden, under the arch of jasmine, he bent to drink water from a silver jug.

That was when the ugly man struck.

His burnt hands clamped around Tom’s mouth before a cry could escape. Tom struggled, kicking against the stone floor, but the man was strong, fueled by something more than human desperation. His touch seared—acid leaked from his pores, burning holes into Tom’s sherwani. The stench of scorched fabric and flesh rose in the night air.

Tom’s muffled scream echoed once, then died as the man forced him into the basket, covering him with layers of fruit. Apples rolled against Tom’s cheek, sticky juice mixing with the faint burn of acid. The lid closed. Darkness swallowed him.

The man hoisted the basket onto a cart. To anyone watching, it was just a delivery of fruits for the feast. He pushed through the gate, his body trembling, sweat dripping, the virus inside him gnawing at his veins. Every step he took left behind faint drops of corrosive liquid that hissed against the stones.

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Inside the hall, the priest called for the groom.

The music swelled, drums beat faster, guests clapped in rhythm.

But Tom was nowhere to be found.

At first, the family thought he was shy. Then they joked he had run away. But when the minutes turned to an hour, and Tom’s seat remained empty, a shadow fell over the celebration.

Tom’s father’s smile faded. His eyes scanned the crowd, the courtyard, the streets beyond. Something cold gripped his chest. He could not say why, but he knew—knew with the certainty of blood—that his son was not safe.

Somewhere beyond the walls of laughter and music, his boy had vanished.

And the night had only just begun.

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