Calcutta breathed incense and decay. The river rolled heavy with ashes from the ghats, the air thick with jasmine and smoke. Lanterns trembled along the alleys, little hearts of fire burning against the dark.

That night, Krist walked among them. His black umbrella caught the lamplight like a blade. The rain had stopped, but the earth still steamed—a living breath that rose from centuries of ritual and ruin. He passed bodies swathed in white, carried to the river for release, and felt the quiet pull in his veins: the hunger that had no name, only rhythm.

He was a necromancer, but not a villain of storybooks. He did not raise the dead; he listened to them. Every whispered last wish, every cry trapped in bone, he collected. That was how he lived—stealing warmth from the dying, one sigh at a time.

The curse had been long. So long that the faces of those he had once loved had blurred into the smoke.

Until he met Singto.

......

Krist saw him first by the burning ghats—alone, unmoving, the wind catching the hem of his black coat. The pyres’ light wove through his hair like threads of copper. He stood close to the fire, too close for any living man, yet the flames curved away from him as if in respect.

Singto turned his head slowly, and Krist felt the impossible: silence in his mind. For years he had heard the murmur of spirits wherever he went. But near this man, there was nothing—no voices, no pull, no hunger.

That absence was intoxicating.

“You watch the dead burn as though you love them,” Krist said.

Singto’s mouth curved, not quite a smile. “Do you not?”

Krist tilted his umbrella to hide the tremor in his hands. “I serve them.”

“Serving is not the same as loving.”

The wind shifted. The pyres cracked and sighed. Somewhere, a bell rang from a temple. Krist blinked, and the man was gone—leaving only the faint scent of sandalwood and rain.

........

Days passed. Calcutta celebrated the Festival of Lights, the city glowing like a jeweled offering to the gods. Krist, who had lived among shadows for lifetimes, found himself searching the crowds. And always, at the edge of sight, the man appeared—watching him from a balcony, standing by the river, reflected in a lantern’s glass.

One night Krist followed him.

Singto led him into the old quarter, where colonial mansions leaned like tired giants. He stopped beneath a fig tree heavy with birds that refused to sing.

“You’ve been looking for me,” Singto said.

“I don’t know what you are,” Krist answered. “Only that you silence what I am.”

Singto’s gaze was steady. “And what are you?”

“Hungry.”

The word hung between them like incense smoke.

Singto’s voice softened. “Then eat, if you can.”

Krist reached for him—not his body, but his essence, the thread of light that tied spirit to flesh. Yet as he touched it, his own strength recoiled. The bond reversed. He felt warmth flooding back into him, a warmth he had forgotten: memory, compassion, longing.

He staggered. “You’re not mortal.”

“No,” Singto said quietly. “Once, long ago, I was something worse. Now I walk to remember what gentleness feels like.”

............

They met again and again. On rooftops. By candlelight. Among the rustling markets where oil lamps blinked like trapped stars.

Krist listened to the stories Singto told—not of conquest or eternity, but of silence, of centuries spent learning not to thirst. He spoke of gods who sleep and dreams that rot, of men who worship fire but forget warmth.

Krist began to change. The hunger that once gnawed him turned into yearning—not to consume, but to connect.

One evening, beneath monsoon clouds, they walked along the riverbank. The Ganges rolled thick and silver.

“You should have left me to my hunger,” Krist said. “You’ve made me remember what dying feels like.”

“Then perhaps you are alive again,” Singto said.

Krist turned to him. “You knew I came to take your soul.”

“I did.”

“And still—”

“I wanted to see if love could unmake hunger.”

Krist laughed once, sharply. “And did it?”

Singto met his gaze. “We will know before dawn.”

...........

The moon drowned in shadow. The night turned copper and wine. From across the ghats came the low chanting of priests and the crack of ghee-fed fire.

Krist stood in a circle of salt and ashes, the old ritual lines drawn around him. Singto waited within them, hands folded, eyes bright with calm.

“You could walk away,” Krist said. “You don’t have to—”

“I’ve walked long enough,” Singto replied.

Krist raised his palms. The mantra began—not words but vibrations that twisted the air. The lamps flickered. Shadows bled from their edges.

“Tamaso mā jyotir gamaya…” From darkness, lead me to light.

Singto stepped closer. “You’re trembling.”

Krist’s voice broke. “I’m supposed to drain your life. Take your light. But all I want is to keep you beside me.”

Singto touched his chest—lightly, as if tracing a wound. “Then don’t take. Give.”

Krist faltered. The circle burned white. The chant turned inward, its rhythm folding back into his heart. He felt his curse unravel, thread by thread. All the centuries of voices he had consumed began to speak at once—not in pain, but release.

Through the rising glow, Singto’s outline wavered, half flame, half man.

“You were never meant to feed on death,” Singto whispered. “Only to carry it gently.”

Krist felt his body dissolve, like mist touched by morning. “And you?” he asked.

“I will carry you,” Singto said. “And perhaps remember how it feels to be warm.”

........

When the eclipse broke, the city lay quiet. The pyres at the ghats had burned out. The first light slid across the river, gilding everything it touched.

A single figure walked through the smoke—Singto, dressed in black, yet radiant. His eyes, once empty, now reflected the sun. In the silence of his chest, two heartbeats moved as one.

Somewhere, deep inside that shared pulse, Krist’s voice lingered—soft, amused.
“You wanted to steal my life,” Singto murmured, smiling faintly. “Instead, you gave me yours.”

The wind carried his words across the water. A heron rose, slow and pale, vanishing into the light.

And where the river met the sky, the last of the shadows bowed, then fled.

.........

In Calcutta, they still tell stories of the man who walks the ghats at dawn. He wears no shadow. The dying feel peace before their final breath, as if someone has already taken the fear from their hearts.

They say he waits for a companion who speaks through silence.

And when the lamps of the city burn low, just before morning, two flames tremble side by side—one gold, one black—dancing without consuming.

........

A/N : inspired by the pic below...