Ayan placed the phone down slowly, and stared up at the ceiling.
His mind wandered off, caught somewhere between what just happened and what it all meant.
"Time… travel." The words left his lips in a shaky whisper, barely louder than a breath.
But why…? Why?! If it's true, then why December 3rd?
His chest tightened.
Why not the 2nd… or the 1st?!
He blinked. Something was wrong. His legs didn't hurt anymore. It was as if his body had forgotten how to feel pain.
Ayan was still sprawled on the floor from crawling just moments ago, his legs twisted at odd angles—like a puppet dropped mid-movement.
He stared at them, dazed; after a moment, reached out and grabbed one.
No pain. Not even a twinge.
Nothing at all.
His eyes widened.
Am I… alright?
He balled his fist and slammed it into his leg. Hard.
No pain.
His breath hitched. "What the hell is happening to me?! This isn't possible!"
Somehow, he managed to sit up and steady himself. His arms shook, but he pushed through. Leaning on the edge of the bed, he tried to stand.
He rose. Unbelievably, he was on his feet.
His legs trembled like they might snap under him at any moment.
"Impossible…" The word slipped out like a breathless gasp.
But the moment his hand left the bed—
Thud—
He collapsed.
He lay on the floor, motionless. Then, slowly, a smile crept across his face. "Well… I guess I should try to remember how I ended up like this."
His eyes narrowed. "And what really happened that night? December 31st… the night that hasn't even come yet."
The floor was cold with winter's chill, but he didn't move. His body had gone still, but his mind refused to rest.
Slowly, he closed his eyes and forced himself to remember.
Images surged through the darkness behind his eyelids—bright lights, laughter, fireworks blooming in the sky.
New Year's Eve. And then… chaos. Screams. Flames. The world tearing itself apart.
Keeping his eyes closed, he remembered the night of December 31st. A night burned into his mind, even though somehow he had been sent back in time.
※ ※ ※
December 31st.
The last night of the year.
Streetlights painted long shadows across the road. Buildings blinked with colored bulbs—some steady, some flickering.
A light mist clung low to the ground, curling around the trees and benches like smoke from a tired breath.
The usual honking and roaring engines were gone. Just the occasional car rolling by, its headlights cutting through the fog like searchlights.
People were celebrating. That much was obvious. Laughter echoed from nearby apartments. Music thumped faintly through closed windows.
The sky, already stained with leftover fireworks, promised more noise before midnight.
But Ayan wasn't a part of that world.
He lay quietly on a bench in the middle of Indore's Central Park, right in front of the fountain.
The water was still flowing, steady and smooth, catching bits of light as it rippled. His wheelchair waited beside him.
In his hand, he held a photograph.
His family, once whole. Now it was half torn and half burned.
The fire had eaten away most of the edges, leaving behind only fragments: Ruby's smile, his mother's arm wrapped around his shoulder, and the spot where his father's face should have been, lost in ash and blackened paper.
Ayan lay there, staring at it without blinking, eyes hollow, fingers gently trembling.
After a while, he folded the photo and slipped it into his pocket.
A few tears escaped, quiet and unannounced, as if even his body didn't want to admit they were real. He wiped them away with the back of his hand, sniffed once, then turned his gaze toward his surroundings.
He watched the view while lying there.
Couples on the street walked hand in hand. The kids jumped over each other; anyone could say they were playing. Some young ones tried to confess their love to their crushes, and someone had just suffered their first heartbreak. The married adults talked with their relatives, friends, and family. Some elderly people enjoyed the moment, watching from a distance.
Everyone eagerly waited for the last three hours of the year to slip by, ready to welcome the new one. Their faces openly reflected excitement, hope, and countless little dreams.
But his face stayed still, as if he were somewhere far away. Unreachable.
Though he seemed to be quietly watching them, something inside him had already broken. The tears wouldn't come. He had run dry long ago.
Suddenly, a loud voice broke the calm. "Hey, Ayan... Ayan! New Year's Eve, huh?"
He sat up and turned toward the sound.
"Yash?" he whispered, the name slipping from his lips before he even realized it.
It was Yash, his only real friend, waving as he walked over, kicking a stone near his foot like it owed him money.
His eyes moved to the two steaming coffee cups in Yash's hands. He stayed quiet, just watching until Yash closed the distance between them.
"Yeah," Ayan replied, not sure what else to say.
The night air was sharp with winter's chill as Yash handed him a warm cup of coffee, keeping the other for himself.
Yash took a slow sip, then glanced at Ayan.
"Aaah… now this is perfect. Cold night, hot coffee. Can't beat that!"
Ayan stared at the cup in Yash's hand.
Yash brought it to his lips, hesitated for a second, then took another sip. His face twitched slightly, but it was enough. Of course. Yash hated coffee. Always had.
Yash had never said it out loud whether he preferred tea, regular coffee, or black. But Ayan had seen him enough times to know. He always picked tea.
He was only trying to cheer Ayan up. Ayan's situation wasn't unknown to him.
Yash sat down beside him, quiet. His face unreadable, gaze somewhere far off. But Ayan felt it. That vibe. Yash was about to do it again…
He nudged Ayan gently with his elbow, a small gesture loaded with meaning. He always did that before trying to reach him.
A bit of coffee spilled from their cups, hitting the ground with quiet splashes. Neither of them noticed.
"Hey," Yash said. "You know it's New Year's Eve, right? You're supposed to smile at least once tonight. And celebrate."
Ayan gave him a weak smile, meeting his eyes. "I didn't really feel like celebrating."
"Yeah," Yash muttered after taking a sip from his cup. "I figured."
Ayan was quiet for a moment, then asked, "Do you ever feel like… no matter how far the year takes you, it just keeps looping, and you still end up back where you started?"
"All the time, man. But maybe that's not such a bad thing. Sometimes, starting over is how you finally get it right." Yash looked at him.
Ayan shook his head. "You don't get it. Some things… you just can't fix. It's impossible."
Yash looked up at the sky, gaze fixed on the moon.
The moonlight caught his golden eye, as if the moon had left its reflection there.
Ayan also looked up at the moon in silence. He didn't say anything.
A red light blinked faintly above, its reflection settling into Ayan's crimson eye as it merged with the moon's glow until the two became one.
So, they're doing drone shows now too.
The thought passed through his mind, dry and distant.
The night sky hid the drone's form, leaving only a tiny red light flickering high above as it drifted through the darkness, too small for anyone to notice.
"Ah… no. That's not it." Yash paused, searching for the right words. "It's all about time. You just need a little more of it. I know you'll figure it out yourself."
Ayan glanced toward Yash.
Yash tore his eyes away from the moon and met his gaze. "Did the police find anything?"
"They're still searching," Ayan replied, lowering his eyes to the ground.
"Oh… I see."
Yash finished his coffee, stood up, and tossed the cup into the dustbin.
"Hey, Ayan, let's lift your spirits. I'm going to buy us some food. I know you'll find your family—Uncle, Ruby. I believe you can do it. But first, let's fill our appetite."
Ayan gave a slight nod. "Can you help me into the wheelchair?"
Yash hesitated. "Come on, man… Are you sure?"
But Ayan gave him a firm look. "Please. I just need to sit up properly."
Yash sighed, then offered a small smile. "Alright, alright. You win."
He stepped closer and gently helped Ayan into the wheelchair.
After that, Yash went off to buy their food.
Ayan finished his coffee and wheeled himself over to the dustbin to toss the cup. Just as he was about to throw it in, a shadow slipped beneath his wheelchair.
He froze. A chill slithered down his spine.
Something had moved, quick and low, like a stray animal darting away. He glanced underneath, but nothing was there.
After throwing the cup into the dustbin, he turned his wheelchair.
A sharp impact jolted him.
The wheelchair shook, but he held on tight.
A young lady stumbled and fell in front of him, catching her breath.
He leaned forward, extending his hand in a gentleman's manner. His brows pulled together. "Are you okay, miss? I'm sorry—that was my fault."
She pushed herself up on her left elbow. A black hoodie hung low over her face, the shadow swallowing everything above her nose.
She didn't meet his eyes. Instead, she adjusted the hood, fingers tugging it tighter like a reflex.
...
"Yes, I'm okay. I should've been more careful while I was running."
She got to her feet without taking his hand and rushed off.
In seconds, she disappeared from his sight.
"Everyone's got their own problems… and their own way out, huh?" he muttered, watching her figure fade into the distance.