Srikanth peered through the steamed-up window, the patter of rain muting the world outside. The day had been long, filled with half-hearted chores and the bitter taste of worry. Nazma, his clever, mischievous friend, had not come home last night. Rumors had flickered around town like fireflies—whispers of a shadow darting through the old, abandoned botanical gardens, of Nazma’s blue scarf caught on the iron gate. Srikanth’s heart thumped with dread and determination. He grabbed his weathered flashlight and zipped up his jacket, bracing himself for the wildness of the night. “I’m coming, Nazma,” he whispered, the words a promise carried on the wind. The garden, tangled and overgrown, loomed ahead, its iron gates groaning as Srikanth pushed them open. Every step crunched on untamed gravel, each bush seemed to twitch with secrets. Past the gnarled rose bushes, something enormous loomed—a w...

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