Muskan Verma lived a peaceful life in Dehradun. A 27-year-old librarian, she found solace among books and quiet corridors. People admired her for her gentle nature and ever-present smile — the one her name so perfectly suited.
But what they didn’t know was that Muskan's past wasn't as serene as her present. Behind her calm eyes lay memories she’d buried deep.
One rainy afternoon, while sorting out old archives in the library’s basement, Muskan found a dusty brown envelope with her name scrawled on it — in a handwriting she recognized instantly. Her heart skipped a beat.
It was from Raghav, a name she hadn’t heard in seven years. The man she once loved, and the man who disappeared without a trace.
She tore open the envelope. Inside was a short note:
"Meet me where it all began. I’m sorry. I need your help. Trust no one."
Her hands trembled. The place where it all began... the abandoned chapel in Mussoorie. Why now? Why after all these years?
Despite the fear coiling inside her, Muskan knew she had to go. Something told her that this wasn’t just about Raghav — it was bigger. She packed a bag, informed no one, and boarded a bus to Mussoorie the next morning.
The fog wrapped the hill station in a ghostly blanket. The memories came flooding back — her childhood here, the laughter, and then the betrayal. Raghav had vanished the night before they were to leave for Delhi to start a new life together. No calls. No goodbye. Just silence.
She reached the broken chapel at dusk. The door creaked as she pushed it open. The air was damp, filled with the scent of moss and something else — anticipation.
"Muskan."
She turned. There he stood, older, tired, but definitely Raghav.
“You came,” he whispered.
“Where were you?” she asked, voice low.
“I wanted to explain... but we don’t have much time.”
“Time for what?”
Before he could answer, the window shattered. A bullet hit the wall just inches from her head.
“Run!” Raghav yelled, pulling her behind a pew.
They dashed out the back. Gunshots echoed in the distance. They ran through the woods, feet pounding against the wet soil. Finally, out of breath, they stopped behind a rock formation.
“Who’s after you?” Muskan gasped.
“It’s a long story. I was part of something... a tech project for the government. I uncovered a covert operation — corruption, illegal surveillance, people being watched without consent. When I tried to report it, they came after me. I faked my death. But now, they know I’m alive.”
“And me?” she asked, fear rising in her chest.
“They think you know something too. They’ve been watching you.”
Muskan’s blood ran cold.
Raghav took her to a safehouse — a small cabin hidden deep in the forest. There, he showed her files, videos, documents. A secret agency had gone rogue, selling national data to foreign firms. He had proof.
“But I need to upload it to the public. We have one chance,” he said. “And I need your help to finish what I started.”
She looked at the man who had once broken her heart — now a fugitive, scared and scarred. But also the man who still looked at her like she was the only light in his dark world.
They decided to go to Delhi to meet a trusted journalist. But halfway down the route, their car was ambushed.
Captured and blindfolded, they were taken to a warehouse.
A voice spoke, calm and familiar.
“Muskan, Raghav — always the idealists.”
It was Dr. Mehra, Muskan’s former college mentor. The one who introduced Raghav to the tech research in the first place.
“You?” Muskan whispered in disbelief.
“Yes. You really think Raghav was smart enough to hack that system on his own? I gave him access. I needed a scapegoat. And you, Muskan... I always suspected you were his weakness.”
Dr. Mehra pulled out a gun. “But now, we tie up loose ends.”
Just as he raised the gun, a loud bang echoed. Dr. Mehra staggered and collapsed.
Behind him stood Inspector Kavya Rawat, an undercover agent working for the CBI. She had been tracking the rogue agency for years and had finally gotten a tip from Muskan’s sudden travel logs.
“I followed you from Dehradun,” she said. “I needed to be sure.”
She cuffed Dr. Mehra’s associates and called backup. Raghav and Muskan were finally safe.
The story of the corruption scandal made national headlines. Raghav testified under protection. Muskan was praised for her bravery.
A few weeks later, sitting in a quiet café in Landour, Muskan looked at Raghav.
“You broke my heart,” she said softly.
“I know,” he replied. “And I can’t undo the past. But I’d like to earn your trust again... if you’ll let me.”
She didn’t respond immediately. Instead, she reached out and took his hand.
A year later, Muskan opened her own community library in Dehradun — a space not just for books, but for truth, resilience, and hope. Raghav taught ethical hacking to young students, helping them use tech for good.
They didn’t talk much about the past. But every now and then, when the wind blew a certain way or a shadow crossed the wall, Muskan would remember the chase, the lies, the fear.
But then Raghav would walk in, smile at her, and everything would feel alright again.
After all, some stories don’t end with "once upon a time" — they begin after the storms pass.
And Muskan?
She smiled again — not because she had to.
But because this time, she truly could.
React
