Beginning of the Story The road curved like a question mark against the canvas of dawn, shrouded in a mist that felt more like memory than weather. I arrived at Devlokh, a town nestled in the lower Himalayas, named after the whispers of sages who once believed this place was a gateway to the divine. I had read that name in an old travel book, scribbled in the margins: "Devlokh — where silence speaks." The town was wrapped in stillness, broken only by the occasional clang of a temple bell or the rustle of pine needles under the slow steps of the wind. It was early October, the sky pale and infinite, with autumn’s breath crisp against my skin. The trees had begun their slow burning — ochres, crimsons, and gold flickered like quiet fire. No one knew why I had come, not even I, entirely. I needed a place that didn’t speak, that listened. Devlokh seemed to listen with its entire being. I stayed in a small wooden guesthouse by a ridge. The owner, an old man with silver hair and a ...