CASE CLOSED!

Bombay High Court — 10:00 a.m., Two Weeks Later

The courtroom had become a cathedral of reckoning. Packed galleries, creaking benches, pens scribbling into silence. At the defendant’s box sat Christopher Lobo, once Mumbai’s most celebrated literary mind, now caged in glass like a myth turned monster. His crimes no longer whispered about — now spoken aloud, line by damning line.

Prosecutor Ravi Bhonsle walked slowly to the center. He didn’t begin with law.

He began with poetry.

“They tried to erase me line by line, But ink runs deeper than their spine.”

Gasps moved through the courtroom like wind through dry leaves.

“These words,” Ravi said, “were written by Anna Sebastian. A woman, a poet, a victim — and, most importantly, a witness. Her testimony is here. Not just in ink, but in evidence.”

One by one, the prosecution laid it bare.

— The forensic report linking Cerbera odollam to the poisoned pen. — The confession of Daniel D’Souza, delivered in trembling words. — Voice recordings of Anna Sebastian naming Christopher Lobo. — The stylometric fingerprint — the double em dashes, reversed ellipses, typographic quirks only one man used. — And finally, the manuscript: The Man Without a Face. Forty-two pages that sang, screamed, and damned.

As excerpts echoed through the courtroom, Lobo remained still. His expression was unreadable. Only his fingers twitched — a poet’s instinct longing for a pen.

“The man without a face wears many masks,” the clerk read. “In one, he’s a poet. In another, a politician. But the only mask that fits him well is silence.”

Arjun Roy sat beside Natasha D’Mello, eyes locked on the glass box. In that moment, Lobo looked up and met Arjun’s gaze.

And blinked.

Press Room, Outside Court — Noon

Outside, under a scorching midday sun, Natasha faced the crowd of reporters.

“This was not just a case of murder,” she said, voice amplified by dozens of microphones. “It was about erasure. About silencing voices. Anna fought that silence with ink.”

Arjun, beside her, said nothing. His silence was deliberate — a tribute.

A journalist asked, “Do you think this verdict changes anything?”

Arjun finally spoke. “It already has.”

Three Days Later — Crime Branch HQ

Mukesh entered, a rolled-up newspaper in hand.

“Page one.”

LOBO GUILTY ON ALL COUNTS — SENTENCED TO LIFE

Below the headline was a black-and-white photo of Anna Sebastian. Her eyes seemed to hold light even now.

Arjun nodded.

Mukesh leaned against the desk. “Feels like the end of something.”

Arjun reached for the day’s mail — a small, unmarked envelope lay on top. No return address. Again.

He opened it carefully.

A single page. Typed.

Even when a mask breaks, the face beneath may be another mask.

Arjun stared at the words for a long moment. Then folded the paper and slipped it into a drawer.

“Someone’s still writing,” he murmured.

One Week Later — Anna Sebastian Literature Archive, Mumbai

The grand opening drew poets, activists, students, and curious citizens. The renovated archive stood where Anna’s apartment once had, transformed into a living museum of resistance.

Glass cases displayed her belongings: the Mont Blanc pen (sealed), her Olympia typewriter, worn-out notebooks, rejection letters, and first drafts.

In the center, a massive plaque engraved with her final poem:

They tried to erase me line by line, But ink runs deeper than their spine. So read aloud what once was hushed, And let no poem turn to dust.

Natasha stood before it, fingers grazing the marble.

“She’d have hated how clean this place looks,” said a voice behind her.

Arjun.

“She would’ve painted over it,” Natasha replied. “In red.”

“She got the last word.”

“No,” Natasha said. “She gave it to us.”

Marine Drive — Sunset

Arjun walked along the promenade, the sea humming beside him like a verse half-sung.

In his coat pocket, a new notebook.

He opened it.

Wrote a line:

Some verses are born in blood, but live in truth.

He closed it.

As he turned to leave, a boy in a delivery cap approached.

“Are you Mr. Arjun Roy?”

“I am.”

The boy handed him a small envelope and walked away without another word.

Arjun opened it.

Inside was a photo — old, faded. It showed Anna seated at a round table. Beside her, a man whose face was blurred. Not by time. By intent.

Behind them: a symbol — the Orphic Society’s insignia.

On the back of the photo, typed in the same font as the earlier letters:

One voice is gone. But others remain. The Society was never just one man.

A cold breeze swept off the sea.

Arjun slipped the photo into his notebook.

The case was closed. But the story wasn’t.

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