PROLOGUE
The rain hadn't stopped for three days.
It hammered against the windows of the small apartment like impatient fingers.
Rudra Saxena sat alone at his desk.
The room was dark except for a single lamp.
Stacks of papers covered the floor.
Newspaper clippings.
Police reports.
Photographs.
Names.
Dates.
Obituaries.
Ten years ago, he would have laughed if someone told him this would become his life.
Ten years ago, he had been standing under bright stage lights.
Ten years ago, people screamed his name.
Ten years ago, he still believed bad things happened to other people.
Now he stared at a photograph.
Ananya.
Twenty-seven years old.
Smiling.
Alive in the picture.
Dead in reality.
His fingers trembled.
He quickly looked away.
There were too many photographs.
Too many graves.
Too many regrets.
His eyes landed on another picture.
His mother.
Hospital bed.
Machines.
White sheets.
A face that had aged ten years overnight.
Beside it was another photograph.
His best friend.
A black ribbon attached to the corner.
Rudra shut his eyes.
For a moment, the room became silent.
Not because the rain had stopped.
Because he had learned how to ignore pain.
That was the problem.
You ignored it long enough and one day it became part of you.
The clock on the wall clicked.
11:58 PM.
Two minutes left.
His gaze shifted toward the strange machine sitting beside his desk.
Wires.
Metal.
Screens.
Lights.
Most people wouldn't understand what it was.
Honestly, neither did he.
Not completely.
The scientists called it impossible.
Then they called it dangerous.
Then they told him it had less than a one percent chance of working.
Rudra laughed bitterly.
One percent was still more hope than he had yesterday.
A notification appeared on the monitor.
READY.
He swallowed.
His heart pounded.
This was it.
His last chance.
His final attempt.
The room suddenly felt smaller.
He reached into a drawer.
Inside was a thick stack of envelopes.
Dozens of them.
Every single one addressed to the same person.
Every single one written in his own handwriting.
Every single one sent to the past.
Some had worked.
Most hadn't.
Every time he changed something, the future changed with it.
But never enough.
Never enough to save them.
He picked up a photograph lying face down on the desk.
A young woman smiled back at him.
Aarohi Mehta.
His chest tightened.
Slowly, he traced the edge of the picture with his thumb.
"I'm sorry," he whispered.
The room remained silent.
Because dead people never answered.
Another notification flashed.
ONE MINUTE REMAINING.
Rudra laughed.
The sound cracked halfway through.
"You know," he muttered, staring at the machine, "for someone who spent his whole life performing in front of millions of people..."
His voice broke.
"...I never learned how to say goodbye."
Rain struck the window harder.
The lights flickered.
Somewhere inside the machine, something began to hum.
He opened a notebook.
The pages were filled with names.
Some crossed out.
Some circled.
Some underlined dozens of times.
At the very top was one sentence.
WHO IS KILLING THEM?
Ten years.
Ten years of searching.
Ten years of funerals.
Ten years of clues.
Ten years of failure.
And he still didn't know.
The killer was out there.
Maybe laughing.
Maybe watching.
Maybe someone he trusted.
Maybe someone he loved.
Maybe someone who had stood beside him all along.
Rudra hated that possibility most of all.
Thirty seconds.
He grabbed a blank sheet of paper.
His hand shook.
He stared at it.
What do you write to yourself when you've already failed?
What warning could possibly save everyone?
What words could carry ten years of regret?
His pen touched the page.
Then stopped.
A tear landed on the paper.
He cursed under his breath.
"Get it together."
Twenty seconds.
His breathing became uneven.
The machine hummed louder.
He could feel it now.
A strange vibration in the floor.
The air itself felt wrong.
As if reality were stretching.
Waiting.
Ten seconds.
Rudra finally began writing.
Fast.
Desperate.
As though every second mattered.
Because it did.
Five.
Four.
Three.
Two.
One.
The machine roared.
Lights exploded across the room.
Wind burst from nowhere.
Papers flew into the air.
Photographs scattered across the floor.
Rudra held the letter tightly.
His eyes squeezed shut.
Then everything became white.
Silence.
For a moment, there was nothing.
No rain.
No grief.
No future.
Only hope.
The smallest amount.
But hope nonetheless.
And somewhere ten years in the past...
A younger version of Rudra Saxena was about to receive a letter.
The first letter.
The one that would change everything.
Or nothing at all.
