Shadows of Truth
(Author Jayakrishnan km)
Chapter 1: The Silence of Colour
Aryan pushed the door open slowly. It creaked, breaking the thick silence inside the room. Neel’s art studio was dark and quiet. The smell of old paint, turpentine, and dust filled the air. It felt cold—not just in temperature, but in a strange, hollow way.
He stood there for a moment without moving.
The place didn’t feel the same. Something was wrong. Very wrong.
This was the same studio where Neel had once worked every single day. The walls used to be covered in large, colourful paintings. His brushes were always busy, his hands stained with paint, and his mind full of wild ideas. There was always music playing, and sometimes Aryan would sit in the corner, watching Neel lose himself in the colours and shapes.
But now, the room looked abandoned.
The main wall—once home to Neel’s most ambitious painting—was completely empty. The wall was dirty and cracked. There wasn’t even a frame left behind. It was as if Neel had never painted here at all.
Aryan stepped further in. The wooden floorboards creaked beneath his shoes. Dust floated in the orange light of evening coming through the grimy windows. The whole room was messy. Brushes lay scattered on the table. Some were still inside a glass jar filled with cloudy water. A few paint tubes had dried up and cracked. In the corner, he saw a torn canvas leaning against the wall.
He walked over to it and bent down. The rip in the canvas was rough and sharp, right through the center. The painting had been destroyed—intentionally. He could feel it. This wasn’t an accident.
Aryan’s fingers touched the edge of the canvas. He felt something sticky. He pulled his hand back and looked closer. There was a faint, dark stain at the bottom of the canvas. He didn’t want to think about what it might be.
He stood up quickly, brushing his hand against his jeans. His heartbeat had started to quicken. This wasn’t just about a missing friend. Something bad had happened here.
Neel wasn’t just an artist. He was passionate, intense, and often mysterious. He believed in painting the truth—even if it scared people. His art was full of emotion, secrets, and sometimes darkness. Aryan had always admired him for that.
But in recent weeks, Neel had seemed... different.
He had started saying strange things. He mentioned dreams that didn’t feel like dreams. He talked about a figure with no face, whispering to him at night. He said he was painting something he didn’t fully understand—something he shouldn’t paint.
Aryan had laughed at first, thinking it was just Neel being dramatic. But now, standing in this lifeless studio, he wasn’t laughing anymore.
He looked around the room again. It felt like someone had left in a hurry. There was no note. No signs of where Neel had gone. His phone was switched off. His flat was locked. And no one had heard from him in days.
Aryan felt a heaviness in his chest. His best friend had vanished—and he had no idea why.
He walked to the window. Outside, the city was slowly getting ready for night. Streetlights were turning on. Cars moved lazily through traffic. People walked by with bags and umbrellas. The world outside was normal.
But inside this room, everything felt wrong.
Aryan’s phone buzzed in his pocket, snapping him out of his thoughts. He pulled it out, hoping—just for a second—that it might be a message from Neel.
It wasn’t.
It was from Ananya.
“We need to talk. Urgent.”
He stared at the message.
Ananya hadn’t contacted him in weeks. She had once been very close to Neel—emotionally, even spiritually. She had helped organize Neel’s last exhibition and had even worked on his concepts. But after that event, something had changed. She had argued with Neel about one of his paintings. She said he was "crossing a line." After that, she disappeared from their lives—until now.
Aryan read the message again.
Urgent.
That one word made his heart beat faster.
He glanced around the room once more. His eyes landed on the far wall—the wall that had once held Neel’s most personal painting. In the dim light, he thought he saw a faint shape—a sort of ghostly outline, like something had been erased but still left a shadow.
He took a step closer, squinting.
But the shape faded. Just the cracked plaster and old paint.
Or maybe… not?
He wasn’t sure anymore.
He took out his phone and quickly took a few pictures of the room. Something told him he might need them later.
Then he turned and slowly walked out. As he stepped outside, he paused and looked back into the studio one last time. His hand rested on the doorframe. His voice was quiet, almost like a whisper.
“What were you trying to tell me, Neel?”
He closed the door gently.
The lock clicked with a soft finality.
The silence inside the studio felt deeper now—like it was waiting for someone to listen.
Continue s......
