CRIMSON PETALS
Chennai – A quiet evening turned unforgettable.
The grand hall was dimly lit, the scent of old pages and fresh flowers hanging in the air.
“And now… I welcome Annie,” the host announced, voice slightly trembling.
“The famous writer whose book isn't just about love... but something that lingers far beyond the last page.
If anyone wishes to ask her about the story…
just remember — some questions open doors that were never meant to be opened.”
From the crowd, a man stood up — his press badge catching the dim light.
His voice cut through the silence.
“Tell me, Annie… is this story truly yours? Or just a work of imagination?”
He paused, eyes narrowing.
“And this title… Crimson Petals — why did you choose it? What was going through your mind?”
The hall seemed to hold its breath.
Somewhere in the shadows, a chair creaked… as if the book itself was waiting for her answer.
Annie’s eyes softened, but there was a shadow behind them.
“This story… is about a boy who couldn’t save the girl he loved,” she said quietly, her voice almost trembling.
“She was his whole world… but fate was cruel. The title Crimson Petals… it’s not just about roses. Crimson is the color of love… and of blood. Petals are fragile, beautiful… and once they fall, they never return.
It’s a reminder… that sometimes, love blooms only to be torn away — leaving nothing but the stain of what once was.”
For a moment, the hall was utterly still. Then, faintly, it seemed the wind outside whispered through the half-open window… carrying with it the scent of roses that no one had brought.
The function ended without incident — at least, that’s what everyone thought.
Laughter and polite applause faded into the hum of chatter as people queued for Annie’s autograph.
She sat behind a table stacked high with copies of Crimson Petals, smiling softly, signing each book with a graceful flick of her pen.
One by one, the readers left, their eyes shining.
At last, she handed a signed copy to the sharp-eyed journalist who had questioned her earlier.
Their fingers brushed for the briefest moment — cold against warm — before he turned and walked away.
She exhaled, thinking it was over.
But then, another man approached.
His footsteps were heavy, deliberate. He didn’t hand her a book.
Instead, he reached into his coat and placed something on the table.
A photograph.
Annie’s smile froze.
Her eyes locked on the image — and the color drained from her face.
It was a faded picture of a young couple.
The boy… the girl… their laughter captured mid-moment.
Only Annie knew that the boy in the photograph had died years ago.
And the girl — her face was one she had sworn she’d never see again…
Because he was the reason she wrote Crimson Petals.
Her fingers trembled as the air around her seemed to grow colder.
In the far corner of the hall, a light flickered — just once.
The photograph lay between them, untouched.
Annie’s breath quickened, but before she could speak, a strange fragrance curled through the air — soft, delicate… unmistakable.
Roses.
It was impossible. No one had brought flowers. And yet, the scent grew stronger, weaving through the hall like an invisible hand.
Annie’s eyes widened.
Her pen slipped from her fingers, hitting the table with a dull clink.
And then… the room began to fade.
The murmurs of the crowd dissolved into silence.
The polished wooden floor beneath her chair became a stone path dusted with fallen petals.
The light above dimmed to a golden haze.
She was no longer in the hall.
She was back there… years ago.
The boy stood before her, smiling the way he always had.
The girl — her younger self — was beside him, laughter spilling in the warmth of a summer afternoon.
But even as the moment glowed, Annie felt the same old dread creeping in.
She knew what was coming.
The day would end in blood, not blossoms.
In the distance, the faint sound of breaking glass echoed — and the fragrance of roses deepened, now tinged with something metallic.
AT PRESENT
The voices of the present rushed back in as Annie’s vision blurred.
The hall reappeared — the bright lights, the lingering crowd, the photograph still lying on the table like an open wound.
She swallowed hard, set the picture down without a word, and stood.
No explanations. No goodbyes.
Her heels clicked sharply against the marble floor as she walked out of the hall, the night air wrapping around her like a cold whisper.
But the scent… the roses…
They followed.
It clung to her coat, her hair, her very skin — richer now, as though someone had crushed fresh petals just beside her ear.
By the time she reached her house, her heartbeat was uneven.
She shut the door behind her and leaned against it, trying to steady herself.
It was just her imagination.
It had to be.
Moving quickly, she went to the small glass table by the window and grabbed the room freshener.
With a determined click, she sprayed it in long, sharp bursts until the entire house was filled with the artificial scent of lavender and citrus.
But even then… under it all… the roses remained.
Soft. Sweet. Unavoidable.
And somewhere in the silence of her home, a faint rustle — like petals brushing against the floor — made her freeze.
Slowly… the rose fragrance began to fade, dissolving into the air like a dream retreating from morning light.
Annie stood still, her heart still beating hard against her ribs.
A soft knock came at the door, followed by the creak of hinges.
She turned — and there he was.
Karn.
Her best friend. The one who knew everything — her past, her present… every shadow she carried.
The moment their eyes met, Annie moved without thinking.
She crossed the room and wrapped her arms around him, holding on as if he might vanish too.
Karn’s voice was low, steady.
“Relax, Annie… I’m here.”
She pulled back just enough to look at him, her eyes glistening.
“It was there again,” she whispered.
Karn’s brow furrowed.
“There is no one here… no smell… nothing,” he said, glancing around the empty room.
“Just… relax.”
But even as he spoke, Annie couldn’t shake the feeling that the roses hadn’t truly left.
Relax.....
"I made coffee for you,” Annie said softly, trying to mask the tremor in her voice.
Karn gave her a faint smile and headed toward the kitchen, his footsteps steady, grounding.
The familiar clink of mugs and the hiss of boiling water seemed to calm the room, chasing away the echoes of what had just happened.
They sat across from each other at the small dining table, the warm aroma of coffee rising between them like a fragile shield.
For a while, neither spoke.
The only sounds were the quiet tapping of spoons against ceramic and the faint hum of the refrigerator.
Finally, Karn broke the silence.
“Tell me,” he said, eyes fixed on her. “From the start.”
Annie took a deep breath, her fingers curling around the mug for warmth.
“At the promotion… it was going fine. I was signing books… answering questions.”
Her voice faltered. “And then this journalist came. He… placed a photograph in front of me.”
She looked down into her coffee as if it could hide the memory.
“It was them, Karn. The boy and girl. From years ago. And after that… the smell came. The roses. It wouldn’t leave me, not even on the way home.”
Karn listened silently, his face unreadable.
When she finished, he took a slow sip of coffee — but his hand tightened on the cup just enough for Annie to notice.
Karn knew everything… or at least, almost everything.
There were still pieces missing — truths Annie hadn’t told him.
He could see it in her eyes, the way her words always stopped just short.
“I’ll stay with you tonight,” Karn said.
Annie hesitated, then nodded. “Okay… I’ll get the room ready.”
Later, when the house had fallen into uneasy silence, Karn lay awake, staring at the ceiling. Sleep refused to come.
Finally, he rose and stepped onto the balcony.
The night air was cool, the city lights distant and hazy.
His mind wandered back to that time — the moment after he had returned from America — and the things Annie had told him… and the things she had not.
The missing details gnawed at him like shadows creeping under a locked door.
The sound of the present returned — the faint ticking of the clock, the whisper of wind at the balcony door.
Karn exhaled, pulling himself back to now.
Annie was asleep, or at least pretending to be.
Karn moved quietly to the table where her book lay — Crimson Petals.
His fingers brushed over the cover before opening to the first page.
If Annie wouldn’t tell him the whole truth, perhaps the story itself would.
As he read, the words seemed to pulse with life.
The boy in the pages was no stranger.
The girl… was unmistakably Annie.
And the “accident” that ended their love was far from ordinary.
It was something darker — something that bled into the present, still leaving the scent of roses in its wake.
Karn sat in the quiet room, the faint glow of the table lamp casting long shadows on the walls.
Crimson Petals lay open before him, its pages heavy with words that seemed to pulse in time with his heartbeat.
As he began to read, the world around him faded. The night, the balcony, the soft hum of the city… all disappeared.
He was no longer in the present. He was back… years ago.
YEARS AGO
Aanya — or Annie, as she would come to be called — was a girl who lived in words.
Stories were her escape, her comfort, and sometimes, her obsession.
Karan - Karn, Harsh - Harshit, and Aanya - Annie had first crossed paths in college.
It began with small things — shared notebooks, chance encounters at the library, late-night coffee runs.
But slowly, those moments became something more.
Laughs turned into secrets, secrets turned into trust, and trust became an unspoken bond.
Karn watched every moment unfold in his mind as he read the pages.
It was as if the book itself was pulling him through time, letting him live every laugh, every quarrel, every stolen glance.
Harshit, always bold, always protective, had a way of making Aanya feel safe — even in the stormiest moments of her life.
Yet beneath the laughter and camaraderie, something darker lingered.
The garden where they once celebrated their small victories — full of roses in bloom — hid shadows that no one dared notice.
It was here, one night, that tragedy first whispered.
A misstep, a fall, and blood staining the petals…
Aanya’s scream tearing through the quiet night.
Harshit desperately trying to save her, his own hands crimson as he pulled her away from the edge of disaster.
But the danger was not natural. Something else — unseen, unfeeling — had been watching.
The roses that night carried more than fragrance; they carried a warning.
As Karn read, he felt his own pulse quicken.
Every word conjured not just memory, but the fear Annie had buried in her heart.
Every page pulled him deeper into the story he had lived alongside them, yet never fully understood.
He realized now that the past was not just history.
It was a chain of events, bleeding into the present, leaving shadows in its wake & a trail of roses that still smelled faintly of blood.
Continue With Reading.......
Life had a way of changing in whispers, unnoticed until the world tilted entirely.
It began with Suhana.
She appeared one evening at a mutual friend’s gathering — graceful, charming, her laughter like sunlight spilling into the room.
Harsh was immediately drawn to her. Karan and Aanya noticed it too, though in different ways. Karan with his quiet observation, Aanya with a careful, protective eye.
It didn’t take long. Harsh and Suhana fell into each other’s orbit like planets drawn together by an irresistible gravity.
Late-night calls, secret smiles, stolen walks in the college gardens — everything was colored by that first flush of love.
And one day, Harsh had taken Suhana’s hand under a canopy of golden lights.
“I can’t imagine my life without you,” he said softly, trembling with hope. “Will you… be mine?”
Suhana’s smile was hesitant, but it carried a warmth that promised eternity.
“Yes,” she whispered.
Aanya, standing nearby, felt a pang of unease.
She cared deeply for Harsh — not in the way Suhana did, but as someone who had watched him grow, laughed with him, and protected him from life’s harsher edges.
Suhana… she didn’t trust her. Something about her charm, so effortless, felt too sharp, too practiced.
Yet, outwardly, Annie kept her fears to herself.
The four of them — Aanya, Karan, Harsh, and Suhana — began spending long afternoons together, their laughter filling cafés, parks, and late-night streets.
To the world, it was simple friendship. But Aanya noticed shadows in Suhana’s eyes, little flickers of something dangerous lurking behind her smiles.
Months passed.
Karan left for America, leaving Aanya behind in their familiar cityscape.
And that was when the unease began to deepen.
Suhana’s past was a closed book. Aanya tried investigating, combing through old news segments, public records, anything that might reveal the truth.
There was nothing. Only gaps. Shadows.
One night, sleep refused to be kind.
Aanya dreamed — vivid, terrifying, impossible.
She was standing at the college’s old rose garden.
The moonlight painted everything silver, but the roses glistened unnaturally red — as if stained with blood.
Harshit was there, holding Suhana, his hands trembling and streaked with crimson.
Suhana’s voice, soft but insistent, reached Annie even in the dream:
“I don’t want to do this… but I’m forced. I’m… powerless.”
Annie woke with a start.
Her sheets were damp with sweat. Her heart pounded as if it knew the warning before her mind could.
The sun had risen hours ago, but fear clung to her like a second skin.
She knew she had to act. She had to protect Harshit.
No matter what the danger, no matter the cost.
And so, she decided: she would speak to him.
The morning sun spilled through Annie’s window, but it brought her no comfort.
Her dream clung to her mind like wet leaves, heavy and impossible to shake off.
Every time she closed her eyes, she saw it again — the roses dripping red, Harshit lying weak, and Suhana’s voice trembling with words she could never forget.
By noon, Annie couldn’t bear the weight of silence anymore.
She grabbed her bag and hurried through the crowded streets, her mind running faster than her steps.
She had to see Harshit.
When she reached his house, Harshit greeted her with his usual warmth.
“Annie! What’s this urgency? You look pale.”
She didn’t waste time.
“Harshit,” she said, voice sharp with fear. “Tell me honestly… do you know everything about Suhana? Where she came from? Her past?”
Harshit blinked, confused.
“Why are you asking me this? Of course I do. She told me everything I needed to know.”
“No,” Annie pressed, leaning forward. “Not what she told you. What do you know?”
For the first time, Harshit’s easy smile faltered.
He looked away, his hands tightening.
“She’s… complicated,” he admitted. “But I love her, Annie. That’s enough.”
Annie shook her head. “It’s not. I had a dream, Harshit. Not just a dream — a warning.”
Her voice cracked as she whispered, “I saw you in the rose garden. Covered in blood. And Suhana… she said she was forced to do it.”
The silence that followed was unbearable.
Harshit’s eyes darkened, a storm brewing behind them. He wanted to dismiss it, to laugh it off as Annie’s overprotective nature… but something in her voice made his chest tighten.
“Annie…” he said softly, “you worry too much.”
She grabbed his hand, desperate. “No. I know what I saw. Please, just be careful. Promise me.”
He finally nodded, though half-heartedly. “Fine. I promise.”
That night, as Annie walked home under the pale glow of streetlights, the scent of roses drifted again through the air.
She froze, heart pounding.
Her gaze fell on the corner of the street — a single red rose lying on the pavement, its petals wet as though soaked in fresh blood.
No one was around.
Yet, Annie felt it — a presence watching her.
The shadows whispered, the roses seemed to breathe, and deep in her heart, Annie knew… the nightmare had only just begun.
The night was heavy with silence. Aanya lay restless on her bed, the book resting open beside her, its pages fluttering slightly in the breeze from the half-open window. Sleep came late, and when it did—it was not peaceful.
She found herself standing in the middle of a vast rose garden under a moonlit sky. The petals around her were crimson, swaying gently, but the fragrance was sickly sweet, almost suffocating.
Her breath caught when she saw him.
Harshit.
He was lying on the grass, his white shirt soaked in blood. His chest barely rose, his hand clutching a withered rose as if it were the last thing he could hold onto.
Beside him sat Suhana. Her face pale, her eyes filled with tears.
“I… I never wanted this, Harshit,” she whispered, her trembling fingers brushing the blood from his cheek.
“But I was forced. Believe me, I was forced…”
The words echoed, broken, haunting.
Aanya screamed, trying to run to him, but her feet felt stuck in the ground. The roses around her began to wither, their petals falling like drops of blood, their thorns growing longer, sharper, as if the garden itself wanted to swallow her whole.
Harshit’s hand stretched toward her, weak and desperate, his lips forming words she could not hear.
And then—everything went dark.
Aanya woke up with a gasp, her throat dry, her body trembling. Sweat clung to her forehead as if she had truly run through the nightmare. For a moment, she could still smell the roses, metallic and sweet, mixed with the scent of blood.
Her heart pounded.
“No… this wasn’t just a dream,” she whispered to herself. “This was a warning.”
Without hesitation, she reached for her phone. Her fingers shook as she typed Harshit’s number, her mind racing. She had to speak to him. She had to know if he was safe.
The phone rang once… twice… three times.
Her breath quickened.
By the fourth ring, a cold fear gripped her.
Why wasn’t he answering?
And then --
The call disconnected.
Silence.
Aanya stared at the glowing screen, her pulse hammering in her ears. Deep inside, something told her—
it had already begun.
Aanya grabbed her bag and jacket, her heart racing as she rushed to Harshit’s house.
The streets were quiet, and the morning air smelled faintly of wet earth and flowers.
When she reached his room, her eyes widened.
Harshit was lying on his bed, casually holding a single rose in his hand. Beside him, a note was pinned to the pillow.
"I love you, Suhana."
Aanya froze, her pulse quickening.
Harshit opened his eyes and spotted her standing in the doorway.
“Aanya! What are you doing here so early?” he said, teasingly. “Didn’t expect a marathon runner to be half asleep at my doorstep.”
Aanya’s eyes narrowed. Her blood boiled.
“How many times have I told you to pick up your phone?” she snapped.
Harshit raised his hands, smiling sheepishly.
“Sorry, bro. I wasn’t home. And when I came back, I thought we’d talk in college like usual. By the way… why were you calling?”
Aanya huffed, her hands on her hips.
“Nothing. Just checking if you’re awake and ready to go to college. You know… in case the party last night tired you out.”
Harshit chuckled, shaking his head.
“You always worry too much, Anya. Calm down.”
Aanya’s anger softened slightly, but a nagging curiosity remained.
She had to know more about Suhana — the girl who had entered their lives and captured Harshit’s heart.
Over the next few days, Aanya quietly began investigating. She watched, she asked discreet questions, and she noticed every detail: Suhana’s charm, her smiles, the way she made Harshit laugh, and… the little things that seemed off.
And soon, the inevitable happened.
Harshit finally confessed his feelings.
One evening, under the warm glow of streetlights, he took Suhana’s hands in his.
“Suhana… I can’t imagine my life without you. Will you be mine?”
Suhana’s eyes sparkled, hesitation giving way to a soft, happy smile.
“Yes… yes, I will.”
And just like that, a love story began — one that would entwine friendship, loyalty, and secrets that Aanya could feel lurking just beneath the surface.
Aanya tried.
She searched public records, old news segments, social media footprints, even whispered rumors from friends and acquaintances. She asked subtle questions, listened for hints, and pieced together every tiny detail she could find about Suhana.
But it was like chasing smoke through her fingers.
Nothing concrete appeared. No childhood photos, no school records, no family information. Even her neighbors and distant relatives seemed like ghosts — barely any trace of her existence.
The more Aanya dug, the more she realized how carefully Suhana had hidden herself from the world. Every step of her life seemed orchestrated, polished, untouchable.
And that nagging feeling she had from the first moment she met Suhana—the one that whispered “Something isn’t right”—only grew stronger.
Yet, Harshit remained blissfully unaware, lost in the whirlwind of his newfound love.
Aanya watched from the sidelines, torn between letting him be happy and protecting him from the invisible shadow she felt creeping closer every day.
She clenched her fists, a mixture of frustration and fear tightening in her chest.
There was something in Suhana’s past… something dangerous.
A secret she hadn’t revealed.
And Aanya knew… she had to uncover it before it was too late.
Days passed.
Aanya’s investigation yielded nothing. Every lead seemed to vanish before it could even take shape.
Frustrated but determined, she decided to focus on her own writing. She wandered into the dusty old library near her college, hoping to find inspiration for her next novel.
Her fingers traced the spines of countless books until a faded, neglected volume caught her eye.
Crimson Petals.
The cover was worn, edges frayed, and dust clung stubbornly to its surface. It had clearly been forgotten for decades, resting silently in a shadowed corner of the library.
Something about it drew her closer. She blew off the layers of dust and carefully opened it.
Between the pages, pressed and fragile, was a rose — dried and brittle, its color faded to a deep, muted red.
She gasped, lifting it carefully, as if the petals themselves carried whispers from the past.
As she turned the pages, the story began to unfold — not just words on paper, but a map of connections. The dots she had struggled to link suddenly aligned in her mind:
Suhana entering their lives.
Harshit’s deepening friendship with her.
The growing, invisible tension between loyalty and trust.
Her own dream — the one where Harshit was in the rose garden, blood staining the petals, Suhana whispering words of fear and compulsion.
It all made sense now.
The rose, the book, the dream… they were pieces of the same puzzle.
Aanya realized, with a chill running down her spine, that Suhana’s presence had never been accidental.
Everything — from her arrival to Harshit’s devotion — was part of a story much larger, much darker, than anyone around her realized.
And as she stared at the dried rose, she felt it: a pulse of danger, a warning, a secret waiting to be uncovered.
The past and present were converging.
And Aanya knew — the real story was about to begin.
The night had bled into dawn. Karn sat quietly in the living room, the old book Crimson Petals open in his hands. The words gripped him with a chilling force — the curse of Suhani, the endless cycle of love, betrayal, and death.
His eyes widened as he read the final passage:
"The one who loves Suhani will always meet the fate of Amar. Only blood can seal her curse. Only sacrifice can keep her alive…"
A shiver crawled down his spine.
Suddenly, the sound of a door creaking broke the silence.
Annie stepped out of her room, her hair disheveled, her face pale from sleeplessness.
The moment her eyes fell on the book in Karn’s hands, her body froze. For a second, she looked like a ghost herself.
“No!” she gasped, rushing forward.
Before Karn could react, she snatched the book from him, clutching it tightly to her chest as though it were burning her hands.
Karn stared at her, shocked.
“Annie… what is this? What are you hiding from me?”
Annie’s eyes glistened. Her lips trembled as if years of silence were finally breaking.
“This…” her voice cracked, “this is the truth I swore I would never tell.”
Karn stepped closer.
“Tell me, Annie. I deserve to know.”
Tears spilled down her cheeks.
“I couldn’t save my best friend, Karn. Harsh… he betrayed me. He never told me that to save Suhana, he would have to give his life. He kept it hidden until it was too late.”
Her voice broke, heavy with guilt.
“I promised him… I promised him with his dying breath that I would never tell this truth to anyone. Not even you.”
Karn’s chest tightened. The puzzle pieces fell into place.
“Where is she now, Annie?” he asked, his tone low, almost trembling. “Where is Suhana?”
Before Annie could answer, the temperature in the room dropped. A faint, intoxicating scent filled the air — roses, sweet but suffocating.
The door creaked open on its own.
And there she was.
Suhana stood at the threshold, her figure draped in shadows, her eyes glimmering with something that wasn’t entirely human.
The rose fragrance thickened, wrapping around the room like invisible chains.
Annie’s breath caught.
Karn’s fists clenched.
And Suhana… she smiled.
The air was thick with tension. Annie’s heart raced as she confronted the shadow at her doorstep.
“Suhana… why are you here?” she demanded, her voice sharp, eyes narrowing. “I told you not to come to India!”
Suhana’s lips curved into a small, almost wistful smile.
“I wanted to see you… and to give my wishes for your book,” she said, holding a carefully wrapped package in her hands.
Karn stood silently behind Annie, his eyes wide with shock. He wanted to speak, to ask a hundred questions, but his voice refused him. He could only watch.
Suhana turned slightly, her gaze settling on him.
Seeing his face, she seemed to understand everything.
“I have to tell you both some truths,” she said softly. “About the curse… about Harsh… about everything you’ve only guessed.”
Annie’s pulse quickened. She took a step forward.
“Then tell us,” she whispered, almost afraid to hear the answer.
Suhana’s eyes darkened with centuries of burden. She spoke slowly, deliberately, each word carrying weight.
“The curse of Suhani is real. It binds those who love her, those who try to save her… even those who sacrifice themselves for her. Harsh… he gave his life to save me once. But I saved him, too — hidden from the world, hidden even from you, Annie and Karn. This curse is tied to life, death, and the choices we make under its shadow.”
She handed them both gifts. Annie unwrapped hers carefully — inside was a small memento, a token from Harsh, along with a folded note.
Karn’s gift was similar, holding memories that spoke of past sacrifices, promises, and silent love.
Then, as quietly as she had appeared, Suhana stepped back.
“I must go,” she said. “Take these. They carry the truth and the message Harsh wanted you to have.”
Outside, Suhana walked to her car. She paused as a voice called to her.
“You gave them what I asked you to… everything I wanted them to know,” said the voice.
“Yes,” Suhana replied simply.
The truth remained hidden from Annie and Karn — Harsh was alive.
The day he had sacrificed himself, Suhana had saved his body, keeping him hidden between worlds, protecting him until the moment he could return.
Harsh had wanted it this way. He wanted Annie and Karn to never know, to remain unaware of the truth. That was why he had secretly sent gifts and messages through Suhana — the silent threads connecting the past and present, love and sacrifice, life and death.
Suhana slid into her car, the engine roaring to life, leaving Annie and Karn staring after her, their hearts heavy with the weight of the secrets they had only just begun to uncover.
The house was silent when Annie and Karn returned inside.
On the wooden table lay the two envelopes Suhana had given them, untouched, their edges sealed with the faint imprint of a pressed rose.
For a long time, neither spoke.
Finally, Annie’s trembling hands broke the seal of her letter. Karn followed, unfolding his with careful fingers.
The handwriting inside was unmistakable — Harsh’s.
Annie’s vision blurred as she began to read:
“If you are reading this, it means I am gone. But know this — my love for you both, my friendship, my loyalty, will never fade.
There are truths you must carry even if they wound you.
The roses you smell… they are not just flowers. They are the curse itself. Once bound to it, you cannot escape. Roses bloom where blood is shed, and petals fall when love is tested.
This curse is eternal. It was written in Suhani’s destiny long before any of us were born.”
Karn’s hands shook as he read his own note:
“Karn, protect Annie. She is stronger than she knows, but the curse will try to break her. Promise me you will never let her stand alone against it. Promise me you will never lose hope.”
A tear slid down Karn’s cheek. Annie covered her mouth, trying not to sob.
The weight of Harsh’s words pressed upon them like a stone they could never lift.
The letters ended with the same haunting line:
“When the roses bloom crimson, beware. It means the curse has chosen again.”
Suddenly, a breeze swept through the room. The dried rose from Crimson Petals, the one Annie had found in the library, slipped from the book and landed between them.
The petals, once brittle, turned soft and red as fresh blood.
The fragrance filled the house, intoxicating, suffocating.
Annie and Karn froze.
The curse was alive.
They did not know — could not know — that Harsh was still out there, hidden by Suhana’s hands, living in the shadow between life and death.
To them, he was only a memory, a ghost bound in ink and petals.
But the roses told another story.
One that was not over.
One that would bloom again.
And as the petals scattered across the table like drops of blood, Annie whispered, almost to herself.
(Note - Roses Bloom Where Truth Was Buried Alive.)
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