Summary: Mumbai crowns a martyr. The system rebuilds its monsters. But truth waits—patient, buried, and lethal. As silence settles over a city drunk on spectacle, Maya and Ravi prepare their final move. What follows is a storm of revelations, a reckoning broadcast for the world to see. Loyalties shift. Legends collapse. And somewhere between shadows and newsprint, one woman speaks for the last time. In a city that forgets fast, some names are burned into memory—some into ash. When bullets fail, stories remain. And one final story is about to explode. This time, nobody walks away clean.
Section 1: Back to the City of Masks
One bullet to Rathore. One to Vikas. Mission done. Maya stepped onto the deck. Rana followed. No words—none needed. Engines off. City lights blinked in the distance. Silence hung heavy over the dark water.
She stood at the edge, back to him, waiting. When Ravi’s boat appeared, bobbing in the distance, she moved—calm, unhurried—and climbed down the metal ladder without a glance back.
Moments later, she stepped into Ravi’s boat. No words were exchanged. The silence said it all—relief, closure, and the weight of a mission finally done.
Rana raised his hand in farewell. Ravi gave him a polite wave. Maya never turned. That chapter was done.
The ride back was quiet. The waves slapped gently against the boat. Mumbai shimmered ahead, dark and still. Neither of them spoke. There was nothing left to say.
At 2 a.m., they reached the Versova jetty. They tied up the boat and walked out like they belonged. No police. No questions. Just another night in the city. It had all been planned.
They moved through empty lanes. Yellow bulbs flickered. Dogs barked in the distance. The city slept.
They reached the same half-built structure where it all began. The safehouse. Still abandoned. Still theirs. They climbed up, past rusted railings and exposed beams, to the top floor.
Ravi dropped his bag and slumped onto a mat. "You going to tell me what’s next?"
Maya opened a small steel trunk and pulled out a folder. Her eyes were clear. "Rathore’s files. His real legacy. I’m putting it out."
"Tonight?" Ravi asked, already half asleep.
"Yes."
"Please," he groaned. "Give me this one night. Just one."
She looked at him. For a moment, her face softened.
"Alright. One night."
She sat down, back against the wall. Ravi was already fast asleep, dead to the world.
Tomorrow, the war would end. But tonight, they rested.
Section 2: Saint in the Streets, Devil in the Files
In just a few days, Mumbai had found its newest martyr. Late Senior Inspector Rajesh Rathore, now paraded as a national hero.
News anchors called Rathore a lion. Newspapers ran front-page tributes. One showed him saluting with the flag behind him. Another crowned him 'the last honest cop'—a line printed bold, repeated loud, believed by no one in the room who approved it.
One street near the police headquarters was already renamed in his honor. A commemorative stamp had cleared central approval in record time. The state cabinet fast-tracked a statue for the Police Academy lawn. A memorial gallery was announced inside HQ, complete with LED screens and ceremonial photos. Corporate donors pledged lakhs for bronze plaques and wreaths. Everyone wanted a piece of the dead hero.
A road here, a statue there—tributes stacked like hush money. Were they honoring him or buying insurance in case his ghost still had claws? Rathore had dirt on everyone who mattered. He used it with charm when he could, and blunt force when he had to. Now that he was gone, the city seemed desperate to keep his memory happy—as if marble and metal could silence the monster they had all fed.
On TV, leaders wept. “He gave his life for the city,” said a union minister who once paid Rathore to rig a land deal. “His sacrifice must never be forgotten.”
A high-society socialite—once blackmailed by Rathore with photos of her private sessions with young male escorts—went on TV to cry over his 'great service to the nation.' It was absurd. She had paid him crores to keep her secrets buried. Page 3 regulars couldn’t stop laughing. The next day, tabloids ran blind items about her hunger for 'raw energy' and discreet trips to five-star suites. The socialite caught the next flight to Europe before the gossip fire turned into an inferno.
Bollywood let out a quiet sigh of relief. Rathore, who once squeezed them on behalf of dons, ministers, and crooked senior cops, was finally out of the picture—at least for now. But they weren’t stupid. They lined up for tribute shows, staged a music night, donated lavishly to the police welfare fund, and sent envelopes to the right desks in the crime branch. Not out of grief. Out of habit. Because they knew the game wasn’t over. The faces might change, but Mumbai’s underworld circus always resumed its act. And Bollywood always paid for front-row seats.
Behind closed doors, the talk was different.
“He had me by the balls, yaar,” muttered the minister, swirling his whisky. “Sometimes I felt like he was the minister and I was the damn cop. Bastard had files, call logs, video clips—stuff that would’ve ended my career ten times over.” He shook his head. “Do you know how many nights I’ve lost sleep thinking he’d leak it all if I said no? He made me dance. Now he’s dead.” He took a long sip. “Good riddance.”
“He wanted his own empire,” another added. “Started thinking he was bigger than the system.”
They raised a toast to his death and changed the subject to elections.
Section 3: The Next Demon in Line
At the Mantralaya, a private meeting was underway. The Joint Commissioner of Police (Crime) sat with the Police Commissioner across from the Home Minister.
“We want to move quickly,” the Commissioner said. “The void can’t last.”
“Who’s the pick?” the minister asked.
“Rana. Deepak Rana, Crime Branch. Used to be Rathore's deputy. Knows every string to pull, every man to squeeze. Loyal so far. Smart enough to deliver, not yet smart enough to threaten.”
The minister looked up. “Same officer who brought back two dead bodies? Neat finish. Timing was... impressive.” He paused, lips twitching at the corners. The silence stretched, not awkward—deliberate. His fingers tapped the armrest, slow and steady. Then came the faintest nod, not of approval, but of understanding. His eyes drifted to the Commissioner and back to the Joint CP. "Just keep your house in order. No loose ends." The message was clear: he knew the game that had been played—and he was fine with it, as long as no one slipped.
"Sure sir, sure sir. No problems at all. We’ll handle it," CP and JCP said in sync, voices eager and smooth. The line between flattery and survival was thin. What amused them more was how perfectly the minister played the part—pretending to ask for reassurance while making it clear he already knew the script. They admired how he stayed ahead of their game while juggling a dozen others. Everyone in the room was bluffing. Everyone knew it. And that was the joke they were all in on.
“Sir, Rana is sharp. He’s already in the system. We’ll push through out-of-turn promotions. Make him head of the organized crime wing—same seat Rathore held. He can run the whole machinery, from back-alley gangs to polished fixers in boardrooms.”
The home minister smirked. “And you’ll keep him in line?”
The Joint CP nodded. “He knows the game. And we’ll keep him leashed. No Rathore-style drama.”
They laughed. Then came the real talk.
“Drug money’s exploding. Real estate laundering’s back in full swing. D-Company’s weak, which means the small fish are biting harder. There’s too much money in this city to let it leak uncontrolled. We need someone to run the pipeline—clean, quiet, ruthless. Party high command wants 30% more. Minimum. Collections have to go up—state elections, national elections, pressure’s insane. You and your shiny new encounter specialist Rana—figure it out.”
He leaned back, chuckled without humor. “Money re baba, money. Sweeter than honey. Rathore was good at it, but got greedy. Killed Arjun Malik—honest fool, too clean to swim in this filth. Then he brought in Vikas Bhardwaj. Before the damn wires settled, both are gone. Now the whole drug line’s jammed. Tens of crores bleeding every day. Other streams are dry too. Send Rana into overdrive. We need results, not rituals.”
The home minister wasn’t shouting. He didn’t need to. His voice was low, even cheerful. But the rot in his words could’ve drowned a courtroom. Three top guardians of law and order were plotting how best to break it. And somehow, it all felt normal.
"Absolutely, sir. We’re just waiting on your nod to speed up Rana’s out-of-turn promotions," the Commissioner said, almost saluting mid-sentence.
"Rest, consider it handled," the Joint CP added. "You’ll see results that exceed your expectations, sir. Now that Rathore's mess is wiped clean, we’ve got a fresh field to play on."
They leaned in, eager, almost gleeful. These were the men trusted to uphold the law—now begging to fast-track a new fixer to keep the cash taps flowing. Their words oozed servility, but their eyes gleamed with anticipation. Crime, after all, was just another file to manage—especially when the bosses promised promotion in return.
“And Rana’s loyal?” the home minister asked, one last time.
“For now. He’s ambitious. But he listens.”
“Fine. Just make sure he doesn’t start thinking he’s invincible.”
The minister lit a cigar, held the smoke for a second, then exhaled slow. “We all saw what happened the last time. Keep this one close. Keep him hungry. And if he starts biting—cut his teeth early.”
They nodded.
He stood, adjusted his cuff, and offered a hand. They all shook. It wasn’t a greeting. It was a final instruction.
Outside, work had already begun on Rathore’s statue.
Inside, the system was assembling Rathore’s replacement—brick by brick, file by file. Another monster, this time with a tighter leash and sharper claws. The kind they believed they could control. Until, of course, he learned the game like his predecessor—and rewrote the rules.
Section 4: Buried by the Truth
Ravi woke up to find Maya already working. She had the files open, tea brewing on a makeshift burner, and her eyes scanning page after page like a machine. No morning talk. No questions. They both knew the clock had started ticking.
The stash she had held back was lethal—real names, real dates, real signatures, photos, and videos. Arjun Malik had built it as a personal life insurance policy. A failsafe. He never got the chance to use it. Rathore struck first and erased him—before he even realized the trap had been set by the one he had started to love. But Arjun had left behind just enough. A cryptic hint. One dying breath. It was enough for Maya to pick up the trail—and against all odds, find the stash buried in the chaos. Now, she was going to weaponize it like it was meant to be. No red tape. No filters. Just pure, scorched-earth truth.
Even Ravi—veteran of scams, scandals, and sting operations—sat stunned. He had seen the underbelly of Mumbai more times than he could count, but this was different. This was nuclear. Rathore wasn’t just dirty. He was the nexus. The kingpin. Every file screamed power abused and lives crushed. Arjun’s quiet handwriting flowed through it all—neat, methodical, unforgiving. Fake encounters backed by court seals. Drug routes mapped with timestamps. Blackmail folders with names, photos, and recorded calls. Shell firms looping into builder deals. Surveillance logs with chilling footnotes. This wasn’t just a legacy of crime—it was Mumbai’s shadow government on paper. And it was going public.
"The game’s changed," Maya said without looking up. "We played the first round our way—anonymous blogs, fake memos, doctored clips. They took the bait, but the system didn’t flinch. It moved on, shrugged it off like bad weather. If we want to break through now, we need firepower with a name on it. Real stories. Real bylines. And a blast big enough they can’t ignore."
Ravi nodded. “No masks this time. I’m putting my name on it. It’ll be Ravi Kapoor’s return to the front page.”
"Ravi, are you sure? You just survived an attempt on your life. You don’t have to put yourself in danger again—not for me. You’ve already done more than I could ever ask, and I can’t carry another guilt, not if something happens to you," Maya said, clutching his hands, her voice thick with emotion.
She wanted him to do it. She needed him to. He was the spark that could ignite the fire she had bottled up for so long. Without his name, the truth would land soft. But under that fire, she felt something else—something quieter. She had come to care for Ravi like a brother, and now she was sending him into the storm because she knew no one else could. Not like him. Not with that name.
"Maya, don’t worry," Ravi said, gripping her hand firmly. "I’ve been through worse storms. In our world, if you want to make headlines, you come back with one that burns—and a real name under it. I’ve been out too long. If I’m coming back, it won’t be with whispers. It’ll be a thunderclap. And I want it, Maya. More than you know. I need to do this—for myself, not just for the story."
He leaned back, eyes sharp, alive again. "So let’s get moving. You line it up. I’ll sharpen the blade. We’ll cut them piece by piece, in chunks they can’t spit out."
Maya didn’t argue. “Good. Make it hurt.”
They laid out the plan. A series of stories. Each more damning than the last. Each stripped of ambiguity. Arjun’s files were gold, but it was the timing that gave them power. Rathore had just been made into a god. Now the same city would watch that god rot in daylight.
Section 5: The Firestorm Begins
Ravi called a few of his old editors. The reactions were instant.
“Ravi? You’re alive?”
“I have something that’ll blow up your newsroom.”
“You back for real?”
“I’m not back. I’m erupting.”
Everyone wanted a piece. The power vacuum, the elections, the desperation for a new headline—they all needed the kind of blood Ravi Kapoor could spill with elegance and rage. Deadlines were promised. Pages cleared. Digital traffic prepared.
And then it began.
The first headline dropped like a hammer:
“The Butcher of Bombay: The Secret Legacy of Rajesh Rathore”
The story was surgical. Ravi laid out the fake encounters—dates, names, locations. Court records matched to doctored FIRs. Postmortems that never made it to file. Payments routed through shell accounts in Rathore’s wife’s name. The article stopped short of naming the Home Minister—but the hints were enough to set phones buzzing in Delhi.
Within hours, more followed:
“Mob Boss in Uniform: How Rathore Ran Mumbai’s Underworld”
“The Arjun Malik File: A Murder Signed, Sealed, and Protected”
“Vikas Bhardwaj: Cop-Made Killer Who Lost Control”
Newsrooms went into meltdown. TV anchors who had mourned Rathore days ago now howled for resignations. Manufactured grief turned into national outrage. The police went mute. Politicians frantically deleted praise posts and tribute reels. Statues were stalled. Street signs were yanked overnight.
But the real embarrassment stood in marble—Rathore’s statue already erected outside Police HQ. No one knew how to bring it down fast enough without looking like fools. So they wrapped it in black cloth and tarpaulin like a corpse no one wanted to claim. It stood there, roped and mummified, a towering symbol of their disgrace. From lion to leper—in seventy-two hours. That’s what media could do. Build a god. And then burn him down.
“You got anything on his Bollywood links?”
“Any names from the file? Stars, producers?”
“Can we get the pictures?”
They circled Ravi like flies on fresh meat. These weren’t reporters chasing truth—they were scavengers hunting gossip. Sleaze was their currency. Affairs, casting couch confessions, perversions—they lived off it. Arjun’s stash had enough dirt to keep them drooling for months.
Ravi, who had never been drawn to that world, knew the game all too well. Some of these vultures wouldn’t publish a word. They’d use the material to extort and blackmail the same victims who had barely crawled out from Rathore’s grip. He had to play it smart.
Ravi didn’t mind feeding the circus—on his terms. He knew the media game. Sleaze sold better than truth. So he played curator, not crusader. From Arjun’s stash, he handed off selected photos—blurred just enough to avoid lawsuits but clear enough to trigger whispers. One actress. Two male models. A politician’s daughter. All seen entering Rathore’s private farmhouses. These were his targets. Why were they there? To do Rathore’s bidding? To please him? To get favours? Maybe they were blackmailed. Maybe they were complicit. No one knew the full story. But it was perfect for the tabloid circus—just enough to spin endless stories out of shadows and suggestions. No facts needed. Just faces and questions.
He knew what the tabloids would do. Speculate, exaggerate, invent. But he made sure nothing he shared could be weaponized again. No names. No victims. Just enough smoke to burn reputations without setting fire to lives. The stories that followed were scandal-heavy, fact-light. Great for clicks. Safe by design. And far better than letting the vultures find the meat themselves.
The tabloids had a field day.
One ran with:
“Silver Screen’s Dark Secret: How Mumbai’s Women Paid for Police Protection”
Another ran a gallery titled:
“Who Was She With? Faces Behind the Blurs”
Behind the noise, the truth was sinking in. Rathore wasn’t just corrupt. He was the system’s disease given form. A monster created, celebrated, and now—finally—buried in disgrace.
Retired cops who once called him “a brave-heart” now stepped forward with straight faces to say they “had always harbored concerns.” As if they hadn’t cheered him at every medal ceremony, shared drinks with him after every encounter. The commissioner’s office issued a vague statement about “reviewing legacy files”—files they had once sealed shut. The Home Ministry refused to comment, hoping no one would ask why they had just sanctioned his statue. The same hands that once fed him now tried to erase him, as if the whole system hadn’t built Rathore brick by brick. It was a cruel joke—except no one was laughing.
Section 6: The Woman Who Spoke and Vanished
Then Ravi Kapoor delivered his masterstroke.
Three days after the last article, he released one final video. It wasn’t a leak. It wasn’t a clip. It was an exclusive—branded, edited, and signed with his name.
"Ravi Kapoor Interviews Fugitive Maya Sharma"
The headline alone made the country stop breathing.
The frame opened with her silhouette against soft backlight. No disguises, just enough blur to avoid a clean facial scan. But no one had doubts. Her voice. Her posture. The fire in her eyes. It was Maya Sharma.
And Ravi made it clear from the start.
“I found her. Tracked her down. Got her to talk. No tricks. No dubbing. This is real.”
What followed was thirty-five minutes of raw, scorching truth.
She spoke plainly. Not with defiance, but weight.
She began with her mother—how Rathore’s team unearthed a buried case from faraway Gurgaon, something Maya barely remembered from childhood. Her mother, a schoolteacher, had been among dozens duped by a shady real estate developer. They were the victims, but the system turned on them. A case was filed accusing them of bank fraud—for loans they had taken in good faith to buy the now-vanished homes. They lost money, peace of mind, and had to grease palms just to make the harassment stop. Maya’s mother thought it was all over. But Rathore didn’t believe in closure. He believed in leverage. Land fraud. Forged documents. Threats of jail. Anything to make Maya bend.
“They cornered my mother to get to me,” she said.
Then came the blackmail.
Maya spoke with a cold fury.
“They didn’t just dig up an old case,” she said. “They showed up at my mother’s door without warning—three plainclothes men, waving arrest papers and shouting threats. She was alone and terrified. She called me, her voice trembling. I went to see Rathore shortly after.”
She took a breath.
“He told me straight. If we didn’t do what he asked, he’d drag my mother and me into a prostitution racket. Said he’d done it before—planted fake clients, tossed in cash, cooked up evidence. 'I’ve destroyed actresses, models, starlets. You think a teacher and her daughter will survive once I put that label on you?' That’s what he said. ‘Nobody believes a woman once she’s called a whore.’
He said they’d raid our place, find condoms, plant escort ads under my name. That they’d break us in public, humiliate us in court, and no one would lift a finger. Just two women. Alone. Easy prey in a city built to crush them.”
She looked away, jaw clenched.
“I wasn’t brave. I was cornered. I said yes.”
"What did he want from you? If he went this far to corner and threaten you, it had to be something big," Ravi asked.
“Rathore knew I was with Arjun. That we were... close. He used that. Told me if I helped, no harm would come. What he wanted was simple—he wanted me to lead them to Arjun. A time when we’d be alone, when they could move in quietly and take him. No drama. No noise. Just hand him over.”
She took a breath.
“At least that’s what I thought. Rathore scared me, then offered a deal—bring them Arjun, and my mother and I would be left alone. Off the hook. I believed him.”
She paused.
“I believed him.”
Her voice didn’t rise. Her eyes didn’t tear. But something shifted—her face went still, the kind of stillness that only comes when regret runs too deep for words. In that pause, it was obvious: this wasn’t just a mistake. It was the moment that broke everything. And she had to live with it.
What followed shook even seasoned journalists.
Maya described the night Arjun was killed.
“They kicked open the door to our hotel suite. No warning. No questions. Just bullets. Arjun was hit in the leg and shoulder—dropped to the floor, bleeding, but alive. He tried to crawl, to speak, to reason. He looked up at Rathore and begged for sense. For mercy. Rathore just laughed.
His men mocked Arjun as he bled out. Called him ‘the don of drama.’ One of them kicked him in the ribs. Another lit a cigarette and watched.
Arjun tried to speak through the pain. Offered to cut a deal—money, silence, whatever they wanted. He was still fighting to live. Still bargaining.
Rathore knelt beside him. Told him the supari had come from Vikas Bhardwaj himself. That it had been cleared at the top. ‘Not my call,’ he said. ‘I’m just the delivery boy.’
Then he stood up. Aimed.
And fired one shot into Arjun’s head. Like switching off a light.
Just like that, it was over.”
She didn’t cry. But her voice cracked.
“I thought they’d just arrest him. Haul him away. That’s all. That’s what I thought I was doing,” Maya said, voice low, strained.
She looked down, eyes burning but dry. “Instead, I handed him over to monsters.”
She paused, and then her voice dropped to a whisper.
“Just before they shot him, Rathore bent down and told him—told him it was me. That I led them there. That his girl gave him up.”
Her breath hitched. “Arjun looked at me. Just for a second. Bleeding. Betrayed. And I—I couldn’t even explain. Couldn’t tell him what they did to me. What they did to my mother. How all this started. I couldn’t say a word.”
The words stopped. Her shoulders began to shake. She turned away from the camera. A long silence followed.
Ravi’s voice didn’t return. The interview had paused.
She needed time. The country watched, holding its breath.
She confirmed she was jailed soon after. A fall person. They wanted her silent. That part of her story was crisp, direct, impossible to ignore.
Then came the shift.
Ravi leaned in—voice even, measured.
“Where did you go after you escaped from jail?”
Maya looked at him. Then away.
“I went looking for the truth.”
“Where?”
“Everywhere they didn’t want me to.”
Ravi tried again. “Did you orchestrate Rathore’s downfall?”
Maya gave the faintest smile.
“I didn’t start this fire. But I didn’t put it out either.”
“Was it revenge?”
She shrugged. “It was correction.”
"How do you read what happened to Vikas Bhardwaj and Rathore? Two men who, by your account, wrecked your life... and then were found dead together," Ravi asked, voice casual, almost offhand—but sharp beneath the surface.
Maya’s eyes held still. Her voice didn’t flinch.
“Strange city, isn’t it? The way justice sometimes arrives without knocking. Two powerful men, both feared, both suddenly gone. The cops say Vikas killed Rathore. Then another cop killed Vikas. Clean. Neat. Filed and forgotten.”
She let that hang, then smiled faintly.
“And that version works perfectly for me.”
“Are you done?” Ravi asked softly.
Maya looked straight at the camera.
“I said what I came to say. And now, I disappear again.”
That was it.
Ravi never pushed too hard. They had agreed. Let the gaps speak louder than the answers.
Section 7: The Country That Watched and Forgot
For a moment, the city went silent.
Then the internet lost its mind.
Social media detonated in real time. Everyone had an opinion. Everyone had a theory. Was it really Maya? Was the story true? Had she actually taken down Rathore and Vikas? Was this revenge dressed as journalism?
Every word of the interview was clipped, subtitled, dissected, and turned into reels. Panelists ranted. YouTubers theorized. Hashtags trended. Memes collided with outrage. Newsrooms ran frame-by-frame analyses like it was a national security threat. Blink and it was a GIF. Speak and it was a headline.
Maya Sharma wasn’t just a fugitive anymore. She was a storm the country couldn’t stop watching.
The video became the most watched news broadcast of the year. Not because it answered everything. But because it showed enough. And hinted at more.
Maya had shattered Rathore’s legacy once and for all. The martyr image was in the gutter. The bronze and garlands couldn’t save what the truth demolished. She had killed Rathore a second time—not with a bullet, but with a story.
Rana, freshly anointed as the head of the prized Organized Crimes Wing of the Crime Branch, watched the interview with interest—and a flicker of apprehension. By the end, he smiled under his moustache. There was admiration for Ravi and Maya, but mostly relief. No mention of him. No questions were raised on social media about his role—at least not yet. The silence wouldn’t last forever, but for now, he had slipped through the cracks. He was prepared for that eventuality, but if it came later, it would be easier to brush off.
Section 8: Ashes, Thrones, and Ghosts
For now, Rana returned to what mattered. The calls hadn’t stopped. Congratulations poured in. So did coded messages of allegiance. Mumbai had a new encounter specialist. A new face to manage the underworld. Euphemisms flowed. But Rana knew what he had become.
He wasn’t just a cop anymore.
He was the throne.
By then, election fever had gripped the country. The government and police dismissed Maya's interview as just another piece of sensational journalism. No official admitted wrongdoing. No case was filed. But the impact was undeniable. The damage was done. The mask was off.
The larger-than-life image Rathore had built while alive—and which the system tried to inflate further after his death—was now rubble. His name was scrubbed from street signs. Statues were melted before they left the mold. His framed photos were yanked off walls and shoved into dusty storage rooms, dumped alongside rusted staplers and torn flags. No tributes. No ceremonies. Nothing. From national hero to cautionary tale. In death, Rathore wasn’t honored. He was discarded.
Rajesh Rathore had died once. But only now was he truly erased.
And Vikas? The second wave of leaks exposed his drug deals, extortion rackets, and fake case setups. But he never rose high enough to matter. He was taken out before he became a name worth remembering. No legacy. No loyalists. Just a cautionary blip that vanished before anyone bothered to fight for it.
The only legacy left standing was Arjun Malik’s. An honest don—whatever that was supposed to mean. A nickname the public gave him on social media, half in irony, half in admiration. It made no sense, but somehow it stuck. In a city where monsters wore medals, maybe a clean crook was the closest thing to a hero.
And even that, Maya didn’t stick around to protect.
She just watched it all unfold. Silently. From a distance. Then turned away—for good.
No comments:
Post a Comment