Aahat listened to the static as if it spoke in a familiar dialect. There were patterns: a sequence that resembled a children’s rhyme, then a lullaby line reversed, then the soft, muffled repetition of a name. The name held weight, a hook in the dark. For a flash, Abhijeet saw the whole case as a map of small failures — a missing watch, debts unpaid, doors left unlocked — but Aahat showed him where the map’s ink had been smeared: grief reaches back like a hand and pulls.