April 20th, 2024

  The grand dining hall was silent except for the soft clinking of fine china and the hushed rustle of a linen napkin. A single figure sat at the long table, illuminated by the warm glow of overhead chandeliers. The man with a fair-skinned smooth-shaven scalp, slender and impeccably dressed in a tailored suit, moved with deliberate grace as he ate.

  The television flickered, painting faint light across his face. The news anchor’s voice filled the space, discussing the latest developments in the world. As the segment changed, the screen shifted to the interview with Julia and Sam, their faces captured in high-definition clarity.

  “We’ve been following Dr. Julia Carter and Dr. Sam Meyer as they uncover groundbreaking finds at Mohen Jo Daro.” The reporter’s voice narrated over the footage.

  “Their recent discoveries have captivated the archaeological community and beyond. After almost seventy years, the site has been going under major excavations.”

  The wealthy man’s fork paused mid-air, the bite of food hanging forgotten as he focused intently on the screen. His once relaxed demeanor tightened, his eyes narrowing with a sudden, sharp focus.

  The interview on the screen continued, “Can you give us an overview of what you’ve discovered so far? Our audience is very eager to learn more,” the reporter asked as the camera zoomed in on Julia responding, “Certainly. We’ve uncovered several significant artifacts that suggest a previously unknown aspect of the Indus Valley Civilization.”

  Suddenly, Sam came into the frame, “Yes, and we’re also examining some materials that seem to have unique properties. Uh.. while we’re still conducting tests…” The reporter eager to hear more, cut Sam off with a follow up question, “Unique properties? Can you share any specifics?”

  Julia quickly intervened. “At this stage, we’re focusing on documenting and analyzing the data. We want to ensure our findings are thoroughly validated before making any… definitive statements.”

  The man was watching now fully immersed in the interview on TV. His chef, standing discreetly by the sideboard, continued to prepare dishes with practiced ease, oblivious to the shift in his employer’s mood.

  The reporter's voice again filled the dining room, “Excavations at Mohenjo Daro were halted in 1965 due to possible weathering damage, could you elaborate why the permission was granted now again?”

  Julia shot a glance at Sam before she responded, “You’ve caught us at a tricky time. We’ll bring everyone up to speed once we have all the details to share. Thank you very much.” With that Julia and Sam left the frame.

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  The man’s breath became shallow, his fingers gripping the edge of his plate tightly.

  The coverage continued, showing the ruins of Mohenjo Daro in high definition as the reporter hoped for a monumental discovery, “As you heard from the archeologists leading this excavation…”

  Without listening another word from the television, the man on the dining table set down his fork, his meal untouched. He stood calmly, the movement catching the attention of the staff. With a courteous nod, he dismissed them, his face revealing none of the eagerness within. The mansion’s opulence seemed to close in around him as he walked briskly toward his study and shut the door behind him.

  ***

  Far across the city, in the slums, a small room cloaked in shadows was illuminated only by the faint glow of an aging computer screen. The air hung heavy with the scent of dust and old paper, bearing witness to years of obsessive research within these four walls.

  On one side of the room, an entire wall was covered with a chaotic collage of notes, maps, and photographs. The images of Julia and Sam were pinned prominently among them, alongside yellowed newspaper clippings and sketches of ancient artifacts and old articles.

  A man sat hunched over the keyboard, the hood of his black sweatshirt casting his face in deep shadow. His worn jeans were as unremarkable as the room itself, the man sat at an old, cluttered desk, his eyes fixed on a flickering computer screen. The same news broadcast was now streaming live.

  Julia and Sam’s faces filled the screen, their words brimming with excitement and determination as they recounted their latest discoveries.

  He sat still, his posture tense, as if the very air around him was waiting for the final word from the reporter. His face, a mask of stone that revealed no emotion, yet there was an intensity in his gaze, a focus that suggested this news meant more to him than anyone could guess.

  “For the first time in nearly 70 years, major archaeological digs have begun at Mohenjo Daro, also commonly known as 'The Mound of the Dead'. We will update you all new developments as the excavation progresses.” the anchor said closing the segment. The broadcast then shifted abruptly, “And now, turning to the weather, clear skies are expected tonight with a gentle breeze, perfect for stargazing,” the anchor added in a lighter, cheerful voice.

  The man’s eyes softened, the sharp edge in them dimming as the tension seeped from his body. His lips twitched, just a fraction.

  “Did you find it, Julia…” he whispered.

  He leaned forward, slow and deliberate, and clicked the monitor off. The screen blinked to black, and darkness swallowed the room—save for the silver of moonlight slicing through the window.

  The old leather chair groaned beneath him as he leaned back.

  “They call it, the mound of the dead,” he said, low and bitter, like spitting out a curse that had festered too long. The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It felt ancient. Watching. Waiting.

  Moonlight traced the edges of his face as he blinked his eyes slowly. His expression shifted, not just tired now, but haunted. As if he were caught between two lifetimes. Two timelines. Two truths.

  “If only they knew…” he whispered.

  “Every truth buried has a voice. And every ruin… remembers.”

  He closed his eyes, and in the stillness that followed, something stirred. The sound of throngs of people walking the busy market, the heat of sun on the back of his neck, the smell of spices and fruits… Not a dream. Not a vision.

  But a return. To the beginning.

  ***