Chapter 1: The Midnight Glitch
The digital clock on the bedside table flickered: 11:59 PM.
Ishastared at it, her eyes raw from crying. On the tablet screen across the room, the headlines hadn't changed. They were frozen in a loop of tragedy, carved into the digital history of the world.
[BREAKING: Advait Rathore, the 'Voice of the Generation,' found dead in his hotel suite. Police suspect foul play.]
"It can't be," Isha whispered, her voice cracking. Her hand went to her neck, grasping the vintage golden pocket watch she had bought at an antique stall years ago—the same day she had first heard Advait's voice on the radio.
In her world of darkness—of the accident that had crushed her legs and the loneliness that followed—Advait's music was the only thing that felt like sunlight. He was her savior. And now, he was gone.
The clock struck 12:00.
Suddenly, the golden watch in her hand grew searingly hot. A blinding, rhythmic ticking filled her ears, drowning out the sound of the rain outside. The room began to blur, the walls melting into streaks of silver and blue.
The Marine Drive Miracle
The smell hit her first—saltwater and roasted corn.
Isha gasped, her lungs filling with humid, warm air. She wasn't in her room. She was standing on the edge of the promenade, the Arabian Sea crashing against the tetrapods below.
She looked down at her feet. She was wearing running shoes. She wiggled her toes. Then, she took a step. Then another.
"I'm... I'm walking?"
She began to run. It wasn't the slow, painful shuffle of her physiotherapy sessions. It was a sprint—fast, light, and breathless. The wind whipped her hair back, and for a moment, she forgot the tragedy. But then, she saw the date on a digital billboard nearby.
August 14, 2021.
Five years ago. She had gone back five years.
The Collision
Isha's heart hammered against her ribs. If it was 2021, that meant Advait was still alive. He was currently preparing for his first national tour. And if her memory served her right, he used to take secret morning runs here, at Marine Drive, to escape the paparazzi.
She scanned the crowd of early-morning joggers. Most were blurred shapes in the dawn mist, but then she saw him.
A tall figure in a black hoodie, moving with an effortless, rhythmic stride. He was running toward her, his head down, looking like a ghost in the morning light.
Advait.
Isha didn't think. She didn't plan. She just veered into his path, her sneakers skidding on a patch of wet moss.
"Watch out!" a voice shouted.
It was too late. Isha's momentum carried her forward, and she slammed directly into him. A pair of strong, solid arms caught her, preventing her from falling backward onto the hard concrete.
The impact knocked the breath out of her. She looked up, and even with the mask covering the lower half of his face, she knew those eyes. They were the eyes that had stared back at her from a thousand posters—intense, brooding, and currently very, very annoyed.
"Are you okay?" he asked. His voice was a low vibration she felt in her very bones. "You shouldn't run so recklessly."
Isha didn't answer. She couldn't. She reached out, her fingers trembling as she touched the fabric of his sleeve. He was warm. He was real. He was breathing.
"Advait," she breathed, a single tear escaping and rolling down her cheek.
The man stiffened. He let go of her arms instantly, stepping back as if he had been burned. His gaze turned sharp, scanning the area for cameras.
"How do you know who I am?" he demanded, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Who sent you? Is there a photographer behind that pillar?"
"No one sent me," Isha said, her voice shaking with a mix of terror and relief. "Advait, listen to me. You have to be careful. The tour... the concert in December... don't go to the afterparty."
Advait's brow furrowed. He stepped closer, his shadow looming over her. "You're a fan, aren't you? How did you get my schedule? And what are you talking about? My tour hasn't even been announced yet."
He looked at her like she was a madwoman, but Isha didn't care. She saw the way his left hand was subtly shaking—a sign of the stage anxiety he had always hidden from the world.
"Your hand," she said, pointing. "You've been over-practicing the guitar. Your nerves are inflamed. If you don't rest, you'll collapse during the opening show."
Advait froze. That was a secret. Not even his manager knew he was struggling with his grip.
"Who the hell are you?" he whispered, his eyes narrowing.
Isha looked down at the golden watch on her wrist. The hands were starting to glow.