The Night of the Fair—A Family’s Resurrection

When the day arrived, the grand venue stood gleaming under the city lights. Banners of the Sen Publishing House lined the streets, welcoming readers and literary minds from across the country. The opening ceremony was solemn yet powerful. There was no escaping the absence of Chitrakshi Sen—her name was spoken with reverence, her memory honored in every speech.

But the message was clear.

The Sen family was here. They were wounded but not broken.

And as the night went on, as the books were unveiled, as the speeches were made, one thing became evident—this was not just a book fair.

This was a declaration.

A declaration that grief had knocked them down, but it had not destroyed them.

They had risen.

A Stage for Words, A Stage for Lies

The grand venue of the Chitrakshi Book Fair was bathed in golden light, illuminating the rows of bookshelves, the sea of literary enthusiasts, and the dignitaries who had come to witness the legacy of the Sen family.

Bipin Sen and his family arrived dressed in elegant yet somber attire, their presence dignified despite the shadows of grief still clinging to them. The fair was not just an event—it was a statement. They were here. They were standing.

Kiaan Roy, standing at the center of it all, adjusted the lapels of his post blazer, straightened his shoulders, and exhaled. He had spent weeks together ensuring this fair would be nothing short of spectacular. I cannot let them down. The Sen family had lost too much already. He would not allow failure to be added to that list.

Then came Akash Pal.

He stepped into the hall with the air of a man who belonged there—polished, poised, and draped in a sharp three-piece suit that gave no hint of the storm within him. Tucked inside his inner blazer pocket was a rich, glistening can of alcohol—his silent companion for the night. He was not yet drunk, but the knowledge of its presence steadied him. A lifeline for when the weight of his own deception became too much to bear.

The stage was set. The microphone gleamed under the lights, waiting for the man of the hour.

A polite applause rippled through the audience as Akash Pal stepped forward. He adjusted the mic, his fingers tightening around the podium.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. To the esteemed Sen family, to the readers, the dreamers, and to those who believe in the power of words—thank you for being here.”

His voice was steady, rich with emotion, perfectly measured.

“Tonight, I stand before you not just as an author, but as a man who has lost something precious. This book—” he lifted the elegantly bound copy, “The Angel”—was written for someone who can no longer read it. But perhaps, through these words, she still speaks.”

A hush fell over the hall.

Akash turned the pages with slow reverence and began to read:

“She was the light in the room, the poetry in my silence. Where others saw the world, she created it anew with her dreams. She was never just a person—she was a presence, an eternity wrapped in the fleeting beauty of now…”

His voice wavered—perfectly timed, beautifully orchestrated. His eyes glistened with unshed tears, and when he blinked, one slid down his cheek.

The audience was spellbound. When he closed the book and looked up, the room erupted in applause.

People rose to their feet, clapping, patting him on the back, whispering words of admiration.

“Brilliant.”
“A true masterpiece.”
“What a tribute to Chitrakshi Sen!”

And in that moment, Akash Pal was not a man with blood-stained hands. He was a grieving lover, a literary genius, a man who had captured hearts.

They believed him.

And just as they added their own tears to his performance, far away, in the shadows, his plan unfolded.

The Messages Begin

While the fair carried on, a phone screen flickered.

Akash Pal’s friend, operating in secrecy, had completed the task assigned to him—one that would either confirm Akash’s suspicions or put them to rest forever.

From the digital grave of Chitrakshi Sen’s phone, the old messages were extracted, backed up, and now, one by one, forwarded to Akash Pal.

His phone buzzed.

The first message appeared.

Then another.

And another.

Threads of conversation between Chitrakshi Sen and Kiaan Roy, long buried, now resurfacing. Private exchanges—words spoken in confidence—poured onto Akash’s screen, each notification tightening the grip of rage in his chest.

His fingers trembled slightly as he scrolled. His breath grew heavier.

What the hell is this?

A sickening wave of suspicion washed over him, turning into a cold, hard realization. He read faster, eyes darting across the words, his mind racing to connect the dots but he couldn’t properly. They were encrypted to his eyes of rage and anger.