The Whisper of Wills -  Chapter 2 

As I prepared for a short journey, a familiar presence stood at the door—it was Rathu. He always had a question or two for me, whether it was about my return for lunch, tea, or dinner. His concern was unwavering, ensuring I never left the bungalow without gladness or an empty stomach. His skills in the kitchen were unmatched; he could whip up traditional sweets of rice flour, coconut treacle, and cashews that seemed almost magical in their taste. 

Today, though, his eyes held a peculiar sharpness, as though seeking answers I had not yet given.

"Will you be back for lunch, sir?" he asked, his voice tinged with something I couldn’t quite place. 

"Yes, but it’ll be a late one," I replied, pulling my sweater tighter. 

“It’s quite cold today, sir,” he remarked, his gaze lingering on me with an unusual curiosity, almost as if he knew more than he let on. 

“I know,” I said, pausing briefly. “But I must visit the tea factory today.” 

As I stepped out of the room, Rathu followed closely, his steps deliberately light, his silence unnerving. 

When I passed through the hallway to check on Mahen, I found him fast asleep. The pale light of morning cast long shadows across his face, making him appear almost ghostly. 

“The doctor will be here in the evening, sir,” Rathu said, his voice unusually grave. 

“I’ll be back by then,” I replied, glancing at Mahen one last time before heading out. 

Outside, the air was brisk, carrying with it a strange stillness. The neatly trimmed rose bushes lining the pathway seemed too perfect, as though hiding something beneath their orderliness. Rathu lingered by the doorway, watching me leave with an intensity that unsettled me. 

Something about his demeanor—his quiet insistence, his careful choice of words—stayed with me as I made my way down the path. It was as if he knew something I did not, something he was unwilling to say. 

The tea factory was about a kilometer away. I drove along the winding hilly path, flanked by endless rows of tea hedges stretching as far as the eye could see. The scenery was breathtaking, but my mind lingered elsewhere. For a brief moment, as I gazed at the picturesque view, a dark thought crossed my mind: What if something terrible happens to Mahen? The weight of unanswered questions bore down on me—a puzzle, vast and intricate, waiting to be solved. 

When I arrived at the tea factory, I was greeted warmly by Mr. Ralf, the factory manager. His cheerfulness seemed genuine, but there was an odd glint in his eye, one I couldn’t quite decipher. As he led me through the facility, explaining its history with practiced ease, I found myself distracted, my thoughts circling Mahen and the strange unease that had been creeping over me all morning. 

Soon, we were joined by Mr. Norbert, one of the directors of Ceylon Brew. He had a commanding presence, his polite smile betraying little of what he truly thought. Our conversation inevitably turned to Mahen—his illness, his late father, and the complexities of their family. 

I learned more than I expected. Mahen’s mother, divorced from his father while Mahen was still in university, had been completely excluded from the company’s shares. The bitterness of their separation still lingered, it seemed. And then there was Mahen’s half-brother—a shadowy figure he had mentioned briefly during their father’s funeral. None of us had ever met him, though we once visited the luxurious city house where his mother now lived alone. 

Why had the half-brother remained hidden? What secrets tied Mahen’s family together—and tore them apart? As Mr. Norbert spoke, his words measured and careful, I sensed there was more to this story than anyone was willing to admit.

The factory gleamed with a modern façade, sprawling across a vast area buzzing with activity. Inside, an enormous staff moved like clockwork, meticulously handling the baking, packing, and restocking of the factory’s outlets. The air was rich with the scent of freshly baked fruit and chocolate cakes, served alongside tea for visitors in a cozy corner. The entire setting felt inviting, yet something about it was subtly unsettling. 

As I wandered through the maze-like factory, taking in the hum of machinery and chatter, a strikingly beautiful young lady caught my eye. She was poised, almost ethereal, and her presence seemed to ripple through the room. Before I could collect my thoughts, she approached me briskly, her eyes glinting with urgency. 

"Are you the one staying at Will's?" she asked, her voice soft but edged with curiosity. 

"Yes, I am," I replied, managing a polite smile. 

"How's Mahen?" she whispered, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone. 

I hesitated for a moment, her question throwing me off balance. "There's no improvement so far," I admitted. 

Her expression darkened, and she leaned in closer, her gaze darting nervously around the bustling factory floor. "There’s something you need to know," she murmured, her words barely audible. 

Before I could press her further, a deep, authoritative voice cut through the air. 

"Ashul, come. Let’s have some tea," Mr. Norbert called out, his presence looming like a shadow. 

The young woman froze, her composure slipping for just a moment. Reluctantly, I turned to follow him, but not without glancing back at her. Her lips parted as if she wanted to say more, but she quickly retreated into the crowd, vanishing as if she had never been there. 

As we sat in the corner café, sipping tea amidst the pleasant hum of visitors, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something important had just slipped through my fingers. 

"Looks are deceptive," Mr. Norbert said suddenly, his voice sharp and calculated, as though he had been reading my thoughts. His smirk was unsettling, his words laced with an unspoken warning. 

I tried to push the incident from my mind, chatting with him about mundane matters, but my thoughts kept straying back to the young woman. What did she know? Why had Mr. Norbert interrupted us so deliberately? 

And, more importantly, who could I trust in this place where everything seemed to wear a mask?

"It was Mahen’s grandmother who insisted you be invited here," Mr. Norbert said, his voice low and deliberate. His eyes, sharp and calculating, seemed to study my reaction. "Mahen loved her more than his own mother. He always followed her advice, no matter what." 

"Where is she now? I’d like to see her," I said eagerly, though an uneasy flutter had begun to stir in my chest. 

A flicker of something—was it hesitation or disdain?—crossed his face. "She’s... too weak to meet anyone these days," he said, his tone oddly restrained. "But she’s a happy lady." 

"Where does she live?" I pressed, my curiosity refusing to be dulled. 

"At the far end of the estate," he replied after a pause, as though weighing his words. "Next to the old factory... Brew 23." 

A chill ran down my spine. Brew 23. The name resonated like a discordant note, jarring and unwelcome. I thought of Mahen’s crumpled piece of paper, the one I’d found tucked away in his journal. The faint, smudged words scribbled on it had seemed nonsensical then, but now they loomed large in my mind: Brew 23 – buried truths. 

My pulse quickened. "Brew 23?" I repeated, my voice barely above a whisper. 

Mr. Norbert’s lips curled into a thin smile, but his eyes remained cold. "An abandoned place now," he said, his tone dismissive. "Not worth your time." 

"But it seems—" 

"Seems what?" he interrupted, his voice sharp. His gaze bore into mine, and for a moment, it felt like the room had shrunk, the walls closing in. 

I swallowed hard and forced a smile. "Nothing. I just thought the name sounded... interesting." 

He leaned back in his chair, his smirk widening. "Names have a way of carrying their own ghosts, don’t they?" 

I didn’t respond, but the unease gnawed at me. Something about Brew 23 wasn’t just abandoned—it felt like it was being deliberately erased, hidden beneath layers of dust and silence. 

Later that night, as the estate settled into an eerie stillness, I sat by my window, staring out into the darkness. The far end of the estate was shrouded in shadow, but I could just make out the faint silhouette of a crumbling structure. 

Brew 23. 

The name whispered through my mind like a warning. Whatever secrets lay buried there, they were waiting—hidden, but not forgotten. And something told me they were darker than I could possibly imagine.