Bangalore — 2025.
The drizzle had just ended when Aarav stepped onto MG Road, the city’s heartbeat. Neon boards reflected in puddles, autos honked like distant memories, and the smell of wet earth mixed with roasted corn from a street cart.
He wasn’t supposed to be here.
He had left office early, mind tired, heart heavier than he realised. A wrong turn near Trinity Circle pushed him into the narrow, quiet lanes behind Brigade Road — the lanes no one notices unless they’re meant to.
And that’s where Aarav saw it.
A tiny, dim-lit shop squeezed between a closed tailor store and a forgotten bakery.
“Mira Curios.”
Faded gold letters, half missing.
The door was slightly open, as if waiting for him.
Aarav hesitated.
Why would an antique shop exist here?
Yet, something pulled him inside.
Inside the shop
Dust floated in the dim light.
Old clocks lined the shelves — some cracked, some frozen mid-tick.
Typewriters. Vinyl records. Rusted compasses. Paintings of people who lived before India had freedom.
It felt like stepping into a room where time exhaled and went silent.
Aarav’s eyes fell on one thing.
A small golden pocket watch, cracked on one edge, resting alone on a deep red velvet cloth.
It looked broken.
But beautiful.
He picked it up — and froze.
The watch felt warm… alive.
“Ah,” came a soft voice.
An elderly woman emerged from the shadows — silver hair, wrinkled hands, eyes too sharp for her age.
“You found that watch,” she said.
Aarav smiled nervously. “I don’t even know why I picked it up.”
“Some things don’t choose shelves,” she said. “They choose people.”
He chuckled. “You speak like you’re selling fate.”
“Fate doesn’t need selling,” she replied. “It simply shows up… when the time is right.”
She wrapped the watch in brown paper without asking.
“I didn’t say I’m buying—”
“You already have,” she said, pushing it gently toward him.
A strange calm settled in the room.
Without understanding why, Aarav placed the cash on the counter.
When he stepped out into the cool MG Road air, the city felt… different.
The breeze lighter.
The lights sharper.
Something watching him.
He shook it off and headed home.
That night
Aarav placed the watch on his desk and turned on his laptop.
The rain began again, soft and rhythmic against his window.
11:09 PM.
11:10 PM.
11:11 PM.
Tick.
Aarav froze.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
The dead watch was beating like a living heart.
The hands moved wildly — like they were running through lost years.
A gust of wind blasted open his window.
Papers flew.
Lights flickered.
Then the world blurred —
his room melting into another place entirely.
He wasn’t in Bangalore anymore.
He was standing in an old-fashioned room lit by a lantern.
Wooden shelves lined with herbs.
Glass jars.
A faint smell of medicine and smoke.
And in front of him—
Her.
A girl in a white saree.
Soft eyes filled with shock and… something familiar.
As if she had been waiting for him her whole life.
Her lips parted.
Her voice trembled.
“Aarav…?”
His stomach dropped.
How did she know his name?
Before he could breathe, the vision shattered —
and he was back in his apartment, chest pounding.
The watch lay silent again.
Aarav leaned forward, rubbing his forehead, trying to understand what just happened.
Then he saw it.
A piece of paper on his desk.
Old. Yellowed. Edges torn.
He unfolded it with shaking hands.
In delicate handwriting:
“If you can read this…
you’re not from my world.”
The room fell silent.
Aarav stared at the note, heart trembling.
Someone — or something — from another time had just spoken to him.
And somehow…
he felt like this wasn’t the first time their souls had met.