My name is Lucia.
Five years ago, I lost my husband in an incident that even now feels too sudden, too absurd… too painful to accept.
That day, it was raining heavily in Mumbai.
The power had gone out.
The floor was wet.
He was coming up from the storage room near the backyard when he slipped and fell down the staircase.
The neighbors heard the crash and ran.
I… I screamed until my throat felt like it would tear.
The paramedics said it was a severe head injury.
He died instantly.
No one questioned it.
No one suspected anything strange about the accident.
I lived the next five years like a shadow.
There was only one thing I kept as if it were sacred:
A clay pot with purple orchids that he had given me on our wedding day.
It sat near the bedroom window.
Not because it was beautiful—
but because it was the last living memory of him.
I never imagined that the very same pot would drag me into a truth I never wanted to face.
That afternoon was unbearably hot.
The neighbor’s cat once again jumped into my balcony, chasing after my dog.
They ran, collided with the shelf, and—
Crash!
I ran outside.
The orchid—the last piece of him—lay shattered on the floor.
A sharp pain shot through my chest…
But before I could gather the broken pieces, I saw it.
A small cloth-wrapped bundle buried under the soil.
I froze.
That flowerpot had been gifted by Arjun.
But I had never seen him hide anything inside it.
I picked it up.
The cloth was yellowed, tied tightly with a thin black thread.
It was clearly something that had been hidden for years.
My hands were trembling.
I slowly unwrapped the bundle…
And my heart stopped.
Inside were:
— A scratched, silver USB drive
— A folded piece of paper with a handwritten message:
“Lucia,
If you’re seeing this… it means I didn’t survive.
Take this to the police.
Don’t trust anyone.
Don’t let them get close to you.”
I fell to my knees.
My entire body was shaking.
Did my husband… know he was going to die?
Not survive what?
Who were “they”?
I cried so hard the phone slipped from my hand.
I somehow managed to dial only one number: 100.
The police arrived in minutes.
I could barely hand them the bundle.
“H-here… my husband… he left this… he… he didn’t die by accident…”
Inspector Mehta, who took charge, opened the evidence carefully and immediately requested a digital forensics team.
I sat on the sofa, shivering.
The house felt cold, as if caught in another time.
Minutes later, the inspector returned.
“There is a video in the USB. Mrs. Lucia, please prepare yourself.”
I nodded, though I felt far from prepared.
The video began.
And the first image shattered me:
Arjun—my Arjun—sitting at the desk in our living room.
The light dim.
His face pale.
His eyes tense, afraid.
He began speaking:
“Lucia, if you’re watching this… it means I’m gone.”
I covered my mouth.
Tears ran uncontrollably.
“My death… will not be an accident.
Listen carefully: someone wants to silence me.”
The officers in the room stiffened.
Arjun continued:
“It started three months ago.
I discovered illegal money movements in the construction company.
Money laundering. Bribery.
Very dangerous people are involved.”
“I made copies of the files.
I was going to report it… but they found out.”
The world around me blurred.
“If they kill me, they’ll make it look like a fall.
Don’t believe anyone who says I ‘slipped’.”
I collapsed against the chair, sobbing.
“Forgive me for not telling you earlier.
I was scared something would happen to you.
If you’re alive… please stay safe.”
The video ended.
Silence filled the room.
Inspector Mehta exhaled deeply.
“Ma’am… your husband’s death may have been a staged homicide.”
I couldn’t speak.
I could only cry.
We went back to the old house—the one where Arjun had “fallen.”
I walked like an empty shell.
The inspector asked:
“Did anyone come to the house that day before the accident?”
I wiped my tears.
“Yes… one of his colleagues.
He came to drop some documents.”
“Name?”
I tried to remember.
“I think… Ramesh. Tall, medium complexion… always smiling…”
The inspector’s face changed instantly.
“Mrs. Lucia…
Ramesh is a suspect in the criminal network your husband uncovered.
He’s been missing for three years.”
A chill ran through my body.
The police examined the staircase.
An officer called out:
“Sir! There’s a metal mark on the railing. Looks like a device was installed here.”
“A device?” I whispered, trembling.
The inspector nodded grimly.
“A silicone slip pad.
Used to cause falls intentionally.”
My legs gave out.
It was real.
Arjun had been murdered.
And I had spent months around one of his killers… unaware.
That night, the police analyzed everything inside the USB.
There were:
— emails
— hidden recordings
— photos of forged contracts
— and a horrifying voice recording:
A man said:
“Keep quiet and live.
Speak… and die.
We just need one fall.
Your wife is young… she’ll find someone else.”
I screamed.
I broke completely.
The inspector slammed his fist on the table.
“That voice is Ramesh. Without a doubt.”
But what destroyed all of us was Arjun’s voice at the end:
“If I die… Lucia will do what I couldn’t.
She will bring the truth to light.”
I felt my soul tear apart.
The next day I remembered something:
An hour before the “accident,” I had seen something rectangular in Arjun’s pocket.
But when his clothes were collected… it was gone.
It was the USB.
They had taken it.
But they didn’t know he had hidden a second copy—inside my orchid pot.
Just like he said:
“I made two copies.
One with me.
One where no one would ever think to look.”
He was right.
With the evidence, police reopened the case.
Three weeks later they called:
“Ma’am… we caught him.
Ramesh is in custody.”
I felt nothing.
No relief.
No triumph.
Just emptiness.
Then they handed me his statement.
“He found out about the money laundering.
We only meant to scare him, but he refused.
So we staged an accident.
He had a USB but hid it somewhere before we could take it.”
I cried for hours.
A week later, Inspector Mehta visited my home.
He carried a small bag.
“We found this in an old company archive.
The handwriting… it’s your husband’s.”
Inside was a letter.
“Lucia,
If you’re reading this, I still have a chance.
If I survive, I’ll tell you everything.
If I don’t… please don’t cry.
I did the right thing.
I love you.
You are stronger than you think.”
I pressed the letter to my chest and wept.
I bought a new purple orchid.
Placed it on the same shelf where the old one once stood.
As a memorial to the truth he protected with his life.
That night, in front of his small shrine, I lit an incense stick and whispered:
“Arjun… it’s done.
The truth is out.
Rest now, my love.”
The curtain fluttered softly, as if someone answered.
I closed my eyes.
For the first time in five years…
I could breathe fully.
No more fear.
No more weight.
Just a warm, quiet longing.
Because I know… somewhere…
he’s still smiling at me.