Ahaan stood frozen.
His breath was shaky.
The cold air from the orphanage hallway stung his skin.
Even though he had never left his room… somehow, he was back inside the nightmare.
The mirrors had tricked him again.
But this time—it felt different.
It didn't feel like a dream.
It felt real.
The long hallway stretched forever.
Lights above flickered like they were dying.
And at the far end, a single door stood open.
Ahaan didn't want to move, but his feet began walking on their own.
Like someone else was pulling his body forward.
The walls around him started whispering.
But this time, it wasn't just voices…
It was names.
Children's names.
Screamed, cried, whispered… as if from underground.
"Maya…"
"Rishi…"
"Anika…"
"Ahaan…"
He froze.
His own name echoed last.
As he stepped closer to the open door, the sound of a music box started playing.
The same tune he heard back when he first opened the cursed object.
It played slower now.
Sad.
Broken.
Like it didn't want to be heard anymore.
He reached the door.
Inside, the room was filled with mirrors—but they didn't show his reflection.
They showed other children screaming.
Banging from the inside, as if trapped inside the glass.
One of the children looked just like him.
Ahaan backed away.
"This is not real," he whispered.
Then a voice replied behind him.
"What if it's more real than your life?"
He turned.
The Other One stood in the doorway.
Same face.
Black eyes.
But something was changing.
It was growing taller.
Thinner.
Its skin was stretching like melting wax.
Then it whispered:
"You were never supposed to survive that night."
Ahaan blinked.
"What… what night?"
The Other One smiled.
"The night the orphanage burned down."
"The night your real life ended."
"And mine began."
Ahaan's legs gave out. He fell to his knees.
His mind was spinning.
Burned down?
He didn't remember that.
He was adopted as a baby. His mother had told him nothing about his early years.
Just that his father had disappeared.
But the orphanage?
The music box?
Could it be—
"You were there, Ahaan," the Other One said slowly.
"You were one of us."
Suddenly, a wave of memories hit him.
Flashes. Screams. Fire.
A broken music box in his tiny hands.
Children crying.
Doors locked.
Smoke.
Pain.
Then—nothing.
He had forgotten it all.
The voices had been whispering the truth all along.
He looked at the Other One, horrified.
"You're me… from that night?"
It nodded.
"I was the part of you that didn't escape."
"The part that burned."
"The part that stayed… and turned into this."
Ahaan screamed, "Why are you doing this?!"
The Other One's face twisted into something no longer human.
Its mouth stretched wide.
Its eyes sunk deep into black pits.
"Because if I can't leave this place…"
"Then I'll pull you back into it. Forever."
Suddenly, the mirrors around the room shattered.
From every broken piece, dozens of hands reached out.
Burnt. Twisted. Grabbing.
They pulled Ahaan into the floor.
He struggled, kicked, screamed—
But the ground turned to liquid shadow, dragging him under.
The last thing he saw was the Other One leaning down.
Whispering:
"You were never the hero."
"You were always… the door."
BLACKNESS.
Ahaan woke up in a hospital bed.
Breathing fast.
Heart racing.
His mom was beside him, holding his hand.
Tears in her eyes.
"You fainted, baby," she said softly. "At school. They brought you here."
But Ahaan wasn't listening.
Because the journal was on the hospital table.
Open.
And this time, it showed a birth certificate.
His name.
Ahaan Das.
Born at St. Elora's Orphanage.
The one that burned down 12 years ago.
And below the certificate, in fresh black ink, was one sentence:
"Welcome home."
Story turned....