Author Note: “How do I begin ?” I wondered. Not with who they are? or what they are? but with the essence of the story itself. For sometimes, it’s the heart of the tale that speaks louder than all else. So, we begin not with what and who but with essence of the journey ahead….. HOHOHO

*****

Early morning, seven o’clock. The weather feels like it’s going to rain soon, with a heavy stillness hanging over the mostly empty metro station. The metallic scent of the rails mingles with the sharp tang of rain in the air, a prelude to the storm. A soft hum vibrates beneath his feet, the only sign that the world is moving at all.

A young man in his mid-twenties, wearing black jeans and a light blue hoodie hanging below his curly hair, steps onto the metro station. He’s always been drawn to the quiet moments, where the world seems to slow down and the ordinary becomes extraordinary.

The station feels almost empty, with only a few distant echoes of footsteps breaking the silence. The soft light of dawn filters through the glass roof, casting a subdued glow over the scene. The air is thick with the anticipation of rain, the clouds above promising a downpour.

The young man notices a woman sitting alone on a bench. She stands out to him in a way he can’t quite explain. She’s wearing a beautiful pure white top and blue jeans, her attire adding a serene yet troubled aura.

Just then, the soft rumble of an approaching train breaks the silence. The young man and the woman, both deep in their own worlds, stand up and board the train. The young man, unknowingly following her into train.

The faint perfume of jasmine clings to her, and it mingles strangely with the damp air. He notices the way the soft light catches her hair, making it shimmer with an ethereal glow, almost as if she’s not fully part of this world and takes a seat across from her, not realizing he’s done so.

Intrigued by her presence, he pulls out his sketchbook, ready to capture this quiet, reflective moment. Who is she? he wonders. What’s her story? His fingers start moving swiftly, sketching her silhouette. Each stroke of his pencil seems to pull her essence onto the page, weaving lines that hum with a life of their own.

As he sketches, the young man feels mesmerized by an unexplainable feeling. It’s something new, something he has never felt before. Her presence evokes a sense of wonder and curiosity deep within him. The way she carries herself, the calmness amidst what seems like an inner storm, captivates him completely. Her oval face holds a certain novelty—clear, pure eyes that seem to reflect her inner thoughts, a delicate nose, and lips that speak of untold stories.

He watches as her hair keeps falling forward, and she repeatedly tucks it behind her ear. Her eyes carry a purity like divinity, and the small mole beside her lips adds a unique charm to her face. He imagines the stories that might be swirling in her mind, mirroring his own creative journey.

As the train nears the next station, the young man finishes his sketch. He gathers his courage and approaches her. Without saying anything, he hands her the drawing. Surprised, she looks at the sketch and then at him. For a brief moment, their eyes meet, and there is an unspoken connection, a silent understanding that bridges the gap between their worlds.

Her eyes widened in surprise as she took the sketch from the young man’s outstretched hand by placing the book she was holding down on the bench beside her. The delicate lines on the page captured her likeness with a startling intimacy. For a moment, she was caught between awe and confusion, glancing up to meet his gaze.

His eyes held a quiet intensity, as though he knew something about her that she had yet to understand. As she takes the sketch from him, her fingers tremble, betraying the calm exterior she’s trying to project.

Her eyes flicker to the name at the bottom of the page — “Rudra” — and then she looks back at him, as though searching for something in his face. Both of them doesn’t say a word but the tension in the air thickens as if they’ve already said too much.

Just as the train stops, in a hurry, she gathers her belongings, leaving her book behind, and rushes out of the train, not looking back. Rudra stands for a moment, watching her leave. As the train moves again, he feels a pang of sadness. He had given sketches to many, but something like this had never happened. Then, he notices the book she left behind on the bench.

He picks it up and opens it, hoping to find her name. Inside, he finds her name: “Anjali”. He flips through the pages and realizes it is a draft of her novel, filled with notes and thoughts. She’s a writer, he thinks, marvelling at the depth of her creativity. He smiles, feeling a deeper connection to her and a determination to find her.

Back on the train, Rudra holds Anjali’s book tightly to his chest, as if yearning for its pages to merge with his soul. The sense of connection he felt earlier has only grown stronger.

He knows he must find her, not just to return the book but to explore the bond they share. How wonderful it would be, he muses, to spend a lifetime with her. To share endless moments together, where time loses all meaning.

The stillness inside the train was amplified by the eerie silence that surrounded the station, as if the world itself had been muted. Rudra starting to feel an inexplicable tension pressing against his chest, a subtle warning in the stagnant air.

The lights in the carriage flickered once, then steadied. An unnatural hum buzzed around him, barely perceptible but impossible to ignore. He glanced at Anjali’s book, its cover worn but imbued with the weight of untold stories. A sudden chill rippled down his spine, the fine hairs on his arms standing on end as the air grew thick and electric.

Outside, a brilliant, jagged bolt of lightning split the sky, its blinding brilliance casting long, stark shadows within the train. The whole world seemed to freeze in that instant—suspended in a blinding, ghostly glow. The moment hung in the balance, an inhale without an exhale.

Then came the thunder, a roar that shattered the silence with the force of a great wave crashing against stone. It reverberated through the train, vibrating in Rudra’s bones. The next moment, an arc of blue-white electricity snapped down from the sky and struck the metal roof of the train, its touch searing and violent.

A blast of raw energy surged through the metal frame, and everything went haywire. Sparks erupted, shooting across the carriage in dazzling, chaotic bursts. The lights sputtered and died, leaving only the crackling glow of electric fire.

Rudra’s body jerked as the current coursed through him, stealing his breath and tightening every muscle into a vice. Agony spread like wildfire, scorching his nerves with an intensity that blurred the line between reality and nightmare.

His mind struggled to hold on, grasping at the fraying edges of consciousness. He saw flashes of Anjali’s face, the serene curve of her profile, her eyes that seemed to see straight through him.

Rudra feels a sharp pain as the world fades around him. As his life slips away from his body he tries to remember last thoughts of Anjali, and the life he dreamed of sharing with her.

How could one single meeting with Anjali have caused this? As his life faded in reality, Rudra began to breathe in the world of Anjali’s novel. It all feels like a fantasy arranged by some unseen force.

Rudra opens his eyes, disoriented. He finds himself in a different place, surrounded by a different reality. Forget about his surroundings, he doesn’t even recognize his own body. His body feels like clothes that don’t belong to him—unfit and suffocating. He doesn’t remember anything about his past life, not even his own name. The only thing he can recall is the face of a woman, the one he drew on the train.