The warm breeze scattered the autumn leaves.
She lay there, still silent and blood strewn.
A shriveled up lady arrived at the coffee house. she ordered some black coffee and seemed to go deeper into her shrug. Mivaan Shrivastava sipped his coffee and glanced at his watch. His fountain head of creativity had been dried up for a while. A crime reporter in his 30’s he lived in a rented apartment. Everyday Mivaan would wait in the café waiting for inspiration to come his way. A tall and goofy man, his curly hair covered the better part of his face while the spectacles resting on his crooked face. As he drank the fragrant coffee his eyes met the worn out lady across. She seemed agitated for a reason and her clattered now and then in the blazing October heat. Mivaan’s gaze, lingered for awhile at waiting for goons to storm into the café or something interesting to take place. but she drank her coffee, paid her bills and left.
As the alarm clock shook his slumber, Mivaan yawned and picked up his phone. when he opened his news feed every article talked about the gruesome murder of son of Gopinath Shukla, an MLA, the victim was a businessman in Santa Cruz. The humid weather prickled his skin as he gorged one news after the another. Apparently the chef had been stabbed multiple times in frenzied manner and a small stone with a lion carved on it had been placed into his mouth. This shocking news startled Mivaan. A feeling of uneasiness gripped him.
To Be Continued……