Anil Babu lives alone. With no family of his own, he plays every role in his solitary household. At 45, he has never married—and he has no desire to. His faith in love, trust, and companionship has long since eroded.

Each day follows a strict rhythm: wake up, cook, eat, go to the office. On the way home, he stops by College Street, buys used books by the kilo, shops for groceries, cooks dinner, reads, and then drifts into sleep. A quiet life governed by routine.

Then the lockdown strikes, upending everything.

Now confined indoors, he finds solace in the books he had recently bought in bulk. One afternoon, after lunch, he picks up a volume from the stack. As he opens the book, a folded letter tumbles out.

In earlier days, people often hid letters inside books—love notes tucked safely between the pages to avoid a prying eye. This seemed to be one of those. He gently unfolds the paper and begins reading.

The letter is from a girl to her boyfriend. She writes of a misunderstanding—an argument that erupted over her male friend, leading to a falling out. But she doesn’t want the relationship to end. She’s willing to sacrifice the friendship if that’s what it takes to prove her love.

She includes a recently installed landline number at her home and urges him to call if he still feels the same. It’s clear she hadn’t intended to end things—just mend them.

Anil Babu finishes reading and murmurs to himself, “So not all women are like her… not like my girlfriend, Mousumi. This girl truly loved him. They must be reunited.” He assumes she forgot to post the letter—perhaps she thought she had, or someone interrupted her as she was finishing it.

But there’s no name. No address. Neither the girl’s nor the boy’s. It’s as if the letter itself was left incomplete, tucked away in haste. It feels nearly two decades old.

Anil Babu wonders: Is she still waiting? Did they ever reunite? Or did they live their lives apart—two hearts fractured by a moment of doubt?

The questions wedge themselves into the silence of his days. He has to know.

Then he remembers: the letter mentioned her landline number.

With a surge of courage, he dials the number. To his surprise, it still exists. In the age of smartphones, the landline lives on. A child answers.

In a gentle voice, Anil asks, “How many women live in your house, little one?”

She replies, “My mom, me, and my grandma. My aunt Mou used to stay here too, but now she’s married and lives with her in-laws.” Then the call drops.

He tries calling again, but the line won’t connect.

“Mou,” he whispers. “So this was Mou’s letter. But is that her full name… or short for something?” His heart races.

Mousumi.

He freezes.

Could this be her letter? His Mousumi?

Rummaging through an old telephone directory, he searches for the number. And there it is—registered to the same address as Mousumi’s home.

It feels like the sky has collapsed around him.

A misunderstanding, a virus of suspicion, had brought lockdown into his own life twenty years ago. And perhaps, it was he who left a letter unread.

Kuntal Roy, the East Zonal Head of a multinational company, enjoys a life of apparent contentment with his mother, wife, son, and daughter. Blessed with abundance, his home appears picture-perfect. But over the years, power has bred arrogance. Kuntal now moves through life cloaked in high status, his demeanor cold and self-assured. Behind this façade, he hides an illicit affair with his secretary, Nisha—a truth unknown to his family.

One day, using a business trip as cover, Kuntal whisks Nisha away to Mandarmani for two days. As they return, rain lashes the roads. Kuntal, wishing to stay back, is overruled by Nisha—she insists on returning before her husband grows suspicious. Kuntal drives himself; he prefers not to bring the company driver on these secretive trips.

On the way back, a heated argument erupts in the car over Nisha's pending salary increment. Distracted, Kuntal takes a sharp right on the bypass and hits a motorbike. The rider is thrown onto the road, writhing in pain.

Panic floods the car. The rain is fierce, the road deserted, and there's no CCTV in sight. They make a chilling decision—to flee. If they take the boy to the hospital, the police will inevitably probe, and their affair will be exposed. Kuntal presses the accelerator, leaving the injured stranger behind.

He drops Nisha home first, then returns to his own. Shaken, he pours a drink to steady his nerves.

“You’re drinking the moment you walk in?” asks his wife, Pamela.

“Do I need your permission now?” he snaps.

“The work didn’t go well, did it?” she asks gently. Her composure needles him further.

Kuntal reaches for a cigarette. Finding none, he growls, “Ask Krish to get me some.”

Pamela replies softly, “He left before the rain. Said a friend was in trouble. Still hasn’t returned. His phone’s off.”

Annoyed, Kuntal mutters, “Tell him to stop hanging around those middle-class beggars. I have a reputation to uphold.”

Just then, the housemaid appears: the police are at the door.

Fear grips Kuntal. Did someone witness the accident? Have they come for me? He sends Pamela to speak to them, then hastily opens his cupboard to pull out cash—ready to bribe, if necessary.

Suddenly, a commotion breaks in the drawing room. His mother, daughter, and Pamela are sobbing uncontrollably. Kuntal rushes in, stricken.

Pamela, clinging to him through tears, utters the words that shatter his world:

“Our Krish is gone. Hit by a car near the bypass.”

Kuntal turns to the police. “Where... exactly?”

When they answer, his body freezes. His breath catches.

It was there. That very spot. That very boy.

It was his own son he left behind—dying in the rain, mistaken for a stranger. Fearing disgrace, he abandoned not only a life, but his own blood. His silence was not ignorance—it was a choice. What now could possibly absolve him?