Red and blue lights flashed across the street. I, Rahul “Ghost” Mehta, stood motionless as I felt the cold metal of the handcuffs on my wrists. She—Officer Priyanka Sharma, the daughter I lost 31 years ago—didn’t know who I was.

I barely managed to get it out of my chapped lips:
—“The same shampoo you used when you were a kid, the same… Johnson’s.”

She frowned, confused. Her police training kept her composed, but for a moment, I saw a glint of suspicion in her eyes.

—“Don’t try to manipulate me,” she said sternly. “I’ve stopped many people who make up stories.”

I didn’t insist. I knew even one wrong word could brand me a lunatic. But deep inside, my heart screamed:

It’s her.

As I got into the patrol car, my eyes fell on her badge: “Sharma.” A borrowed alias, the banker who stole my daughter and my life.

31 years searching for him, 31 years roaming cities, paying spies, checking cemeteries and hospitals. 31 years living with heavy feelings of guilt for not protecting him.

And now I was handcuffed in the back seat of her car while she drove, unaware that I was the man who had searched for her even in her dreams.

At the station, I was seated in front of a desk. Officer Sharma looked at me with the professional coolness he’d learned at the academy.

—“Full name.”
—“Rahul Mehta.”

—“Surname.”
—“Ghost.”

A slight twinkle in his eyes. He must have heard it somewhere, perhaps in an old family file.

—“Age.”
—“Sixty-eight.”

He glanced at the papers, but I saw his jaw tighten.

—“Any close family member we should inform?” she asked.

Her throat choked.
—“A daughter… Priyanka Mehta Sharma.”

The pen fell from her hand.

She was trying to compose herself, but I saw a tremor in her hands.

—“How do you know that name?” she inquired.

I took a deep breath.
—“Because it’s yours. Because you have a moon-shaped birthmark below your left ear. Because when you were two, I kissed it every night so you could sleep peacefully.”

Her face paled. Naturally, she placed a hand on her neck, as if protecting this personal secret.

—“No…that can’t be.”

—“I’m your father, Priyanka.”

She suddenly got up, pushing back her chair.
—“Enough! You’re crazy. My father died when I was a child. That’s what my mother told me.”

The ground beneath my feet slipped away.

—“Your mother lied. She removed me from your life. I never stopped looking for you.”

She shook her head, her eyes brimming with tears, as if trying to erase what she had just heard.
—“No… it can’t be that simple.”

I bent down, my hands cuffed.
—“Do you remember the red tricycle? You fell in the courtyard and broke your eyebrow. I carried you to the hospital in my arms. I bought you strawberry candy to calm you down.”

Her lips parted. How could anyone else know? This memory was so personal.
—“How… how do you know?”

—“Because I was there. Because I cleaned up your blood with my own hands.”

The mental wall her mother had built began to crack. I could see it in her eyes. She wanted to hate me, but a part of her yearned to believe me.

“If you’re my father, why weren’t you with me all these years?” she asked in a broken voice.

Tears burned in my eyes.

“Because your mother stopped me. She changed your surname, hid, and ran away. I searched for you, Priyanka. I searched for you until I had nothing left.”

That night I was kept in a cell. She stood outside, watching from the window, a storm in her eyes.

In the morning I was called for a statement. The prosecutor was surprised and asked me if I wanted to file a complaint. And then I told her everything: the story of my daughter’s disappearance in 1993, Rashmi’s escape, the private detective, the old judicial documents.

I saw Priyanka listening from a corner. Her face was a battlefield between duty and blood.

Words weren’t enough. I knew. So I demanded a DNA test. Officer Sharma—my daughter—hesitant at first, then agreed.

The days of waiting were the longest of my life. I remembered every lost birthday, every lonely Diwali, every night spent talking to a faded photo.

Finally, the result came: 99.9% match.

When Priyanka saw it, her legs went weak. She sat down on a chair and looked at me with tearful eyes.
—“31 years… where were you?”

—“Right here. Searching for you. Always searching for you.”

She cried, hiding her face. With trembling hands, I could only kneel before her.
—“Forgive me for not finding you sooner.”

And then, for the first time in 31 years, she called me:

—“Papa…”

We had long conversations for weeks. She asked about my life, why I never married, why I hung out with clubs. I told her about my injuries, scars, and my battle with alcohol.

She, in turn, told me stories of her childhood, in the shadow of Rashmi and Vijay Sharma.

Each story was breaking down the wall that separated us.

The truth had to come out. Priyanka filed a complaint against her mother for kidnapping her daughter. It was a painful process, with old documents and forgotten witnesses.

Rashmi appeared in court, old but proud.
—“I did it to save you from yourself,” she said with venom in her eyes.

But the DNA report, custody papers, and accumulated lies didn’t save her. She was convicted.

I thought it was too late. 31 years of separation can’t be bridged. But Priyanka surprised me.

—“I don’t want lost time. I don’t care. What matters is that you’re here now.”

And in that moment, I realized that life, however harsh, is giving me a second chance.

Today, when I’m called a ghost, it’s no longer about loneliness. I’m riding a motorcycle with my daughter, her hands around my waist, the wind carrying away the distance and the years.

I’m no longer a ghost. I’m a father.

And she, the girl I thought was lost, is now the same officer who arrested me and gave me my life back.