
The wind it sings ,so wild and free,
It dances high above the sea .
Through forest tall and fields so wide ,
It whisper secrets as it glides.
It hums at night ,it roars at down
It shakes the trees and sweeps the lawn.
A gentle breeze,a mighty guest,
It moves the world with strength and trust.
"The voices never stopped. They whispered in the quiet ,screamed in the silence ,danced through the cracks of a mind that never knew rest . sometimes,they told the truth.some times , they lied .but the real question was -how could you tell the difference?"
_______*****_______
The basement smelled of rust, damp concrete, and blood. A single overhead bulb flickered, casting jagged shadows against the cold stone walls. Chains rattled softly as the man in the chair struggled, his breaths shallow, his face slick with sweat and fear.
Armaan Singh Rathore stood before him, sleeves rolled up, revealing forearms streaked with crimson. His grip on the knife was steady, his expression unreadable. The man whimpered, but Armaan had heard it all before—pleas, apologies, desperate attempts at negotiation. None of it mattered.
“You knew this was coming,” Armaan said, his voice low, almost casual. He tilted his head, watching his prey with quiet amusement. “You crossed me, and there’s a price for that.”
The man’s lips trembled, trying to form words, but before he could, Armaan drove the blade into his chest. A sharp gasp. A gurgle.
Then silence.
Armaan stepped back, watching as the life drained from the man’s eyes. Blood pooled beneath the chair, the crimson spreading like ink over the cracked floor. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, wiping the blade clean before tucking it away.
“Get rid of him,” he ordered, voice cold.
His men moved swiftly, dragging the lifeless body into the shadows as Armaan turned toward the metal staircase. He climbed the steps unhurriedly, his boots clicking against the worn-out surface. By the time he reached the ground floor, he was already lighting a cigarette.
Outside, the rain drummed against his black Rolls-Royce. The city was quiet at this hour, the streets washed in neon and mist. He slid into the driver’s seat, exhaling a slow stream of smoke before starting the engine.
As he pulled out onto the road, a whisper curled through the air.
Faint. Unsettling.
Armaan’s fingers tightened around the steering wheel. He had been in this world long enough to know when he was being watched.
And tonight, something unseen was following him.
He smirked to himself, eyes dark with curiosity.
Let them come.
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