The icy breath of the Himalayas drifted across the Beas River, rattling prayer flags and carrying the smell of pine into the high-altitude village of Vashisht. At dawn the mountain air had a way of sharpening every sound—the crunch of frost underfoot, the hiss of the river, the quickened breaths of runners pounding the trail.

For Aanya Malhotra, this had been routine for three years. Coach Arvind Rana’s winter training camp demanded nothing less than total surrender. But this morning, as she stretched beside the rickety wooden bridge, something felt wrong. The rest of the team murmured nervously. The coach was late.

Arvind Rana was never late.

Aanya jogged up the pine-lined path to the coach’s cabin, her breath making tiny clouds in the cold. The door stood ajar. Inside, the small stove was cold, his shoes gone, his whistle hanging like a lonely pendulum on the wall. No note, no sign of struggle—just a faint smell of cedar smoke and something metallic.

The village police chalked it up to a morning hike gone long. “He probably went up to Jogini Falls for a walk,” the inspector said with a shrug. “You know him—mountain man.”

But Aanya knew better. Arvind was disciplined to the second, his entire life an equation of split times and heart-rate zones. He would never leave the team waiting on the eve of the National Cross-Country Championship.

That night, restless and sleepless, Aanya stepped outside. The moon washed the valley silver. A thin line of symbols caught her eye on the wooden railing: tiny mountain shapes scratched into the timber, fresh and deliberate. She ran her fingers across them. Three peaks.

The next morning she hiked the familiar trail that Coach Rana loved—the steep climb toward Solang Valley. The cold bit into her lungs. At a fork in the trail, a cluster of stones formed the same three-peak pattern. Nestled among them lay a small audio recorder, the kind journalists used.

Heart pounding, she pressed play. “If you’re listening, Aanya,” the coach’s voice rasped, “don’t tell the others. Keep running. Follow the signs. Trust no one.”

Static swallowed the rest.

The next symbol appeared near the frozen waterfall, carved into the ice itself: three peaks, pointing upward. Beneath it, a GPS coordinate scrawled on a scrap of parchment.

Aanya debated calling the police, but the warning echoed: Trust no one.

By evening she had borrowed a friend’s jeep and driven toward the coordinates, deeper into the pine forest where roads turned to stones and shadows. A forgotten forest rest-house stood there, half-collapsed under years of snow.

Inside, the smell of damp earth clung to her. Another recorder waited on a dusty table.

“They found me,” the coach whispered. “The federation’s doping cover-up runs higher than you imagine. I took the files—proof of their scheme. Someone inside wants them buried. If I disappear, you must decide: expose them, or run.”

Aanya froze. She remembered rumors of athletes banned mysteriously, of sudden withdrawals before big meets. Could this be true?

A creak from the doorway jolted her. A silhouette—broad, familiar.

It was Rakesh, the team’s star sprinter.

“Aanya,” he said, eyes glinting in the lantern light, “you shouldn’t be here.”

“How did you—?”

“Coach told me to watch you,” he interrupted. “He knew you’d follow the trail. Hand over whatever you found.”

Her pulse thundered. “Where is he?”

“He left to protect us. The files he took… they can ruin careers.” Rakesh stepped closer, his voice low. “Maybe it’s better if some truths stay buried. Give me the recorder.”

Aanya gripped it tighter. “If you cared about him, you’d help me.”

Rakesh’s jaw clenched. “You don’t understand. They’ll come after anyone holding evidence. You’re already in danger.”

A branch snapped outside. Another presence. Rakesh stiffened. “Too late,” he hissed. “They followed me.”

Through the cracked window Aanya glimpsed two men in dark parkas advancing silently. No village police, no mountain hikers—these moved like predators.

Rakesh grabbed her wrist. “Back door—now.”

They bolted through the rotting back exit, crunching through knee-deep snow, the hiss of footsteps close behind. The moon lit the path only enough to show more of the three-peak symbols etched into tree trunks, as if the coach himself had prepared an escape route.

The trail ended at an abandoned rope bridge swaying over a chasm. The wood groaned in the wind. Rakesh tested it, then waved her across.

Halfway over, a gunshot cracked the night. The bridge shuddered. Splinters rained into the gorge.

“Run!” Rakesh yelled.

They leapt to the far side, rolling into the snow. Another shot echoed, but the dark figures hesitated at the bridge’s edge. The rope had snapped behind them.

Breathing hard, they stumbled upward until a dim light glimmered through the trees—a small stone shrine. Inside, the air was warm, scented with incense. And there he was.

Coach Arvind Rana sat cross-legged, a heavy rucksack by his side. His eyes, calm yet fierce, met Aanya’s.

“You found me,” he said quietly.

Aanya dropped to her knees. “What is happening? Who’s after you?”

“People who fear the truth,” he replied. “The federation’s top officials have been forcing young athletes into a secret doping program, then destroying those who refuse. I collected proof—blood reports, financial trails. Enough to bring them down.”

“Then let’s go to the media!” she urged.

“They’ll silence me before morning,” the coach said. “But you—they won’t suspect you yet.” He handed her a small flash drive. “This holds everything. Take it to the journalist in Shimla. Name’s Meera Deshpande.”

Rakesh stepped forward. “Coach, they’re right behind us. You can still come.”

Arvind shook his head. “I’ll stay and lead them away. You two must leave now.”

Outside, the forest roared with the wind. Far below, faint shouts rose—the pursuers were crossing the chasm somehow.

Aanya’s throat tightened. “I won’t leave you.”

“You must,” he insisted, gripping her shoulders. “Running is what you do best. Run for the truth.”

He pushed them toward a narrow tunnel at the back of the shrine, a hidden passage descending through rock and ice.

Hours later, as first light brushed the valley, Aanya and Rakesh emerged near a deserted road. Behind them, the distant crack of gunfire echoed and then faded into silence.

By evening they reached Shimla, weary and shaken. Meera Deshpande listened without interruption as Aanya slid the flash drive across the café table.

“This will shake the entire sports establishment,” Meera whispered, eyes widening at the first files. “Where is your coach?”

Aanya stared out at the snow-dusted ridges. “I don’t know.”

The scandal broke a week later: headlines screaming of banned substances, forged medical records, a multimillion-rupee conspiracy. Officials resigned overnight. Arrests were made.

But Coach Arvind Rana never resurfaced. No body, no sightings—only the symbols of three peaks that began appearing in odd corners of sports arenas, etched onto benches, hidden on race trails.

Months later, as Aanya stood on the starting line of the national championship, she spotted the symbol carved lightly into her own starting block.

The gun fired. She ran. And for a heartbeat, carried on the icy wind, she could swear she heard his voice - “Keep running. Trust the trail.”