Part 1 — The Friday Packages
I moved into a quiet neighborhood in Pune after getting a new job.
My neighbor, Mrs. Mehta, lived in the house next door.
She was an older woman who always smiled when she saw me.
But every Friday morning, something strange happened.
A small brown package appeared outside my front door.
It was always wrapped in plain paper.
Always tied with the same red thread.
And always decorated with a tiny white flower.
The first Friday, I assumed it was a mistake.
I knocked on Mrs. Mehta’s door.
“Did you leave this for me?”
She smiled.
“Yes.”
“What is it?”
“Something you might need someday.”
I laughed.
“Can I open it?”
She shook her head.
“Not yet.”
I thought she was joking.
But the next Friday, another package appeared.
Exactly the same size.
Exactly the same wrapping.
Again, she told me not to open it.
This continued for weeks.
Friday after Friday.
Five packages.
Then six.
Then seven.
I began wondering if there was something valuable inside.
One Friday, I asked her directly.
“Why do you keep giving these to me?”
She looked at me for a long moment.
“Because you remind me of someone.”
“Who?”
“My daughter.”
Her expression changed.
“She used to live here.”
I wanted to ask more.
But she simply walked back inside.
Then came the eighth Friday.
I found the package outside my door.
But this time, there was a note attached.
It said:
“If you ever need to know why, open the package.”
I stared at it.
Then I looked toward Mrs. Mehta’s house.
Her curtains were closed.
For the first time, I decided to open one.
Inside was a small silver key.
And underneath it was a photograph.
The photograph showed Mrs. Mehta standing beside a young woman.
The young woman looked remarkably like me.
Part 2 — The Woman in the Photograph
I immediately went next door.
Mrs. Mehta opened the door before I knocked twice.
She saw the photograph in my hand.
Her face changed.
“You opened it.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I need to know who that woman is.”
She stepped aside.
“Come in.”
We sat in her living room.
She stared at the photograph.
“That was my daughter, Anika.”
“When did she die?”
“She didn’t.”
I froze.
“What?”
Mrs. Mehta took a deep breath.
“Anika left home eleven years ago.”
“Why?”
“She was angry with me.”
She explained that Anika had wanted to move abroad after receiving a scholarship.
Mrs. Mehta had begged her to stay.
They had argued.
Anika left.
For years, they barely spoke.
Then, one day, Anika called.
She told her mother she was coming home.
But she never arrived.
Her luggage was found at the train station.
She was never seen again.
I looked at the photograph.
“Why do I look like her?”
Mrs. Mehta looked at me.
“Because people have noticed it too.”
She told me that I had unknowingly moved into the house next door to her after the previous tenant left.
The first time she saw me, she thought she was looking at her daughter.
Then she noticed something else.
My mother had the same surname as Anika’s maternal grandmother.
I suddenly felt uneasy.
“My mother never told me anything about this.”
Mrs. Mehta stood up.
“That’s why I started leaving the packages.”
She pointed toward the silver key.
“Your mother gave that to me years ago.”
I stared at her.
“My mother?”
“Yes.”
She told me that shortly before Anika disappeared, my mother had visited her.
They had known each other.
Very well.
I couldn’t believe it.
“What did my mother have to do with Anika?”
Mrs. Mehta looked toward an old cabinet.
“She knew something about what happened.”
I stood.
“What?”
Mrs. Mehta opened the cabinet.
Inside was an old diary.
She handed it to me.
“This belonged to Anika.”
I opened it.
Most of the pages were ordinary.
Then I reached the final entry.
It was dated two days before she disappeared.
I read it aloud:
“If anything happens to me, ask the woman who lives beside the old banyan tree. She knows where I left the truth.”
I looked at Mrs. Mehta.
“Our house has a banyan tree.”
She nodded.
“That’s why your mother came here.”
Then she pointed toward the silver key.
“It opens something beneath that tree.”
Part 3 — The Eighth Package
That evening, Mrs. Mehta and I walked into the garden.
The old banyan tree stood at the far end.
I searched around its roots.
After several minutes, I found a small metal box buried beneath the soil.
The silver key fit perfectly.
Inside were letters.
Bank records.
Photographs.
And a passport.
The passport belonged to Anika.
But there was something else.
A recent photograph.
Anika was alive.
The photograph had been taken only three years earlier.
I stared at it in disbelief.
“She survived?”
Mrs. Mehta covered her mouth.
Then she began crying.
Among the letters was one written by my mother.
It explained everything.
Anika had discovered that a family acquaintance was involved in financial fraud.
She had found documents proving it.
When she threatened to report him, she became frightened.
My mother had helped her leave the city safely.
Anika had changed her identity and moved away.
She stayed hidden because she believed the people involved would hurt her if they discovered where she was.
My mother had promised to protect her secret.
But before she died, she gave Mrs. Mehta one instruction:
“If I ever meet a young woman who looks like Anika, give her the packages.”
I looked at Mrs. Mehta.
“That was me.”
She nodded through her tears.
“She wanted you to know that Anika was alive.”
Then there was a final envelope.
Inside was a letter.
It was addressed to Mrs. Mehta.
“Mom,
I’m sorry I disappeared.
I wasn’t ready to come home.
But I’ve never forgotten you.
Every Friday, I think about the sweets you used to make for me.
One day, I’ll come back.”
Mrs. Mehta cried.
I held her hand.
Then my phone rang.
The number was unknown.
I answered.
Nobody spoke for several seconds.
Then a woman’s voice whispered:
“Is this the girl who lives next door to my mother?”
My heart stopped.
“Yes.”
There was silence.
Then the woman said:
“My name is Anika.”
I looked at Mrs. Mehta.
She was staring at me.
And for the first time in eleven years…
her daughter was calling home.
