The Shadow of Retribution: A tale of vengeance and the price of justice.

Chapter 13

The Past
23rd September, 2022
Kathmandu, Nepal

Today, I went to school with thoughts of him filling my mind. Every day, I write letters to him whenever I have a free moment, as if he’s just away, in some other country, working or doing what he loves. I imagine myself in Kathmandu, waiting for him, thinking that one day he’ll open the door to our home, back from vacation, and read all these letters I’ve saved. When I’m not in class, I’m always lost in thought.

As I was writing to him as usual, my science teacher’s voice broke through. “Are you always going to write letters to him?” she asked. “Knowing that he’ll never read them?” Her words caught me off guard, and suddenly I felt tears well up because I realized—she was right. He’s not coming home from work because he never got the chance to live that life.

“I think I’ll keep writing to him as long as I’m alive,” I said quietly. She paused, then replied gently, “Sis, you need to let him go and allow him to rest in peace. He won’t be at peace until he knows you’re not suffering.”

I sighed. I can’t let him go. I’ve written poems, stories, letters, songs—all for him, all about him. How could I possibly let him go?

Outside of school, I’m obsessed with the occult, witchcraft, and the paranormal. I often find myself thinking about resurrection, especially when I’m back home alone. But today, something happened—a friend of mine, D, called.

“Did you know his body was cut into three pieces?” he asked.

I was stunned. “What do you mean, three pieces?” I asked, barely able to comprehend. “Is that why his body was never brought home?” My heart sank, and I felt a fresh wave of grief. How could a bike accident be so horrific that his body was left in pieces?

But then his voice grew somber. “It was crafted, Sambhavi,” he said, pausing to take a breath. “Almost like…someone had done it on purpose.”

I couldn’t listen any longer. I hung up, too overwhelmed to process it all. Knowing that my love had died in such a gruesome way was enough to make me scream, to question a God I had never believed in, a God who, people say, would never hurt his children—and yet, He allowed me to suffer like this.

I went outside, smoked some weed, and had a drink. But my friend’s words kept replaying in my mind. At last, I realized—he was perhaps killed. And if that was true, I made up my mind right then. I would find the killers, and I’d make sure they paid in the worst way imaginable.