little hill town of Mussoorie. By afternoon, the clouds had settled over the mountains like a grey blanket.
Rohan, a twelve-year-old boy, stood by the window of his grandmotherโs old house. He loved rainy days, especially when the mist covered the hills and made the world outside look mysterious.
That evening, while walking through the garden, Rohan noticed something unusual beneath an old deodar tree.
A small wooden box was half-buried in the wet earth.
He looked around. Nobody was there.
Slowly, he pulled it out.
There was a tiny brass lock on the boxโbut no key.
Rohan wiped the mud from its lid and noticed three words carved into the wood:
โFor the one who waits.โ
He stared at the words.
Who had left it there?
And what was inside?
Just then, thunder rolled across the mountains.
Rohan heard footsteps behind him.
He turned around.
Nobody was there.
But the deodar tree was moving strangely in the windโฆ and something shiny was lying beneath its branches.
To be continuedโฆ ๐ง๏ธ๐ฒ