I met Kulbhushan during a trek gone wrong in the Zanskar Valley. A storm trapped me in an abandoned monastery, and he appeared like a shadow given form—calm, cloaked, speaking in Hindi laced with Sanskrit proverbs. He saved my life. For three months, he trained me in voice, breath, and silence—the tools of an ancient discipline known only to a few.

Now, in his study, he places a rusted key in my palm. The firelight flickers across his face, carving deep lines of resolve.

'The time has come,' he says, voice barely above a whisper. 'The cave will open only for you. I cannot go back. But you must enter. Retrieve what I left behind. Before it wakes again.'

He hesitates, then grips my wrist. 'And if you hear singing… do not answer. No matter how much it sounds like me.'

The key burns cold against my skin. Outside, the wind howls like a mourning woman.

Do I trust him? Or has he been lying all along?