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Chapter 2 — The First Email
The next morning started with rain again—Delhi couldn't seem to decide whether it wanted to drown or shine.
I sat by the window, plucking at my guitar strings while the city outside tuned itself to the same melancholy key.
I kept thinking about the message.
Whoever—or whatever—had sent it knew too much.
And yet, instead of scaring me, it felt almost… familiar, like hearing an old recording of my own voice and realizing you still believe what you once said.
I opened the laptop. The inbox was empty.
No new message.
For some reason, disappointment hit harder than I expected.
I refreshed three times. Nothing.
Ridiculous. I was actually waiting for an email from my future self.
So I did what any rational man should do in a moment of existential confusion: I called Sameer.
---
"Bro, you're overthinking," he said, still half-asleep.
"I'm not," I argued. "I'm telling you, the message mentioned Blue Note and Mira. How would anyone know that?"
Sameer yawned loudly through the phone. "Easy. Mira probably told me, I told someone, someone made a fake account. End of mystery."
"An account with no sender ID? From the future?"
He chuckled. "You forget—half our batch are coders now. Someone could've spoofed it. You're being romantic about spam."
I wanted to laugh, but part of me didn't buy it.
I said goodbye, hung up, and stared at the grey sky until the rain blurred everything into one long smear of silver.
That evening, when I got home from teaching, I opened my laptop again.
Still nothing.
I almost felt stupid for checking—until the screen flickered.
New mail.
My breath caught.
The sender line read: You (2035)
> "You did well.
Don't tell anyone about these emails, not even Mira.
There are limits to what can change.
Next time you see her, ask about the train trip she's planning.
Don't let her go.
— You."
My fingers hovered over the keyboard.
I typed before my brain could filter the words:
> "What happens if I do let her go?"
I hit send.
The reply came almost instantly.
> "Then you'll lose her again."
That word—again—stayed on the screen long after I shut the lid.
---
Mira called two days later.
She wanted to meet for coffee—"to talk about the photo project," she said.
Her voice sounded casual, but there was that spark underneath, the one that always made me forget the rest of the world.
We met at a tiny café near Lodhi Gardens. The place smelled like cinnamon and old wood. Rain drummed softly on the glass, the city outside a watercolor painting in motion.
Mira waved when she saw me.
"You look different," she said as I sat down.
"Different how?"
"Lighter. Like you finally stopped fighting gravity."
I laughed. "Maybe I just slept."
She smiled, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "I wanted to ask you something. I'm going to Shimla next week—train, camera, everything. Need a break. I thought maybe you'd come along.
Could use some music while I take pictures."
Every muscle in my body froze.
> Ask about the train trip she's planning. Don't let her go.
The words from the email echoed in my skull.
"I—uh—Shimla, huh? That's… soon."
"Yeah," she said. "Leaving Friday."
I tried to sound casual. "What if you didn't go?"
Mira tilted her head. "Why not?"
I couldn't say because my future self told me not to.
So I smiled awkwardly. "Just… feels like Delhi isn't done with you yet."
She laughed. "Wow, poetic. You practicing lyrics now?"
"Maybe."
She reached across the table and tapped my knuckles with her finger. "You worry too much, Arjun. I'll be fine."
---
That night, I couldn't sleep.
I paced the small apartment, every creak of the wooden floorboard reminding me that the future was already written somewhere—and I was scribbling on top of it like a child.
At two a.m., I wrote another message.
> "She's going on the train anyway. Tell me what happens. Please."
No reply came for hours.
Then, at 4:17 a.m., the laptop screen flickered awake.
> "You can't stop every mistake.
But some fates can be delayed.
If she insists on going, make sure you drive her to the station yourself.
Be there when the sky turns red.
— You."
I stared at that line—when the sky turns red.
What did that even mean?
---
Friday arrived with a pale sunrise bleeding through the clouds.
Mira's train was at 6:00 a.m. I barely slept, but I showed up anyway, guitar in the back seat, heart thudding like a snare drum.
She was surprised to see me. "You actually came!"
"Couldn't let you run off to the hills alone," I said, forcing a grin.
We reached the station twenty minutes early. The sky was still dim, soaked in the last shade of night.
She hoisted her camera bag, and I helped her with the suitcase.
"So," she said, looking at me with that teasing smile. "Are you going to tell me why you're acting like a protective brother all of a sudden?"
"I just—had a weird feeling," I admitted.
She rolled her eyes, laughing. "You and your feelings."
The whistle blew. She hugged me quickly, the kind of hug that doesn't quite let go.
As the train started to move, the first rays of dawn spilled over the horizon—red and fierce, exactly like the email had said.
My stomach tightened.
For a moment, everything felt suspended—the noise, the motion, the light.
Then, suddenly, the train halted. Brakes screeched.
A commotion rippled through the platform—shouts, confusion.
Someone up front had pulled the emergency chain; a herd of cows had wandered onto the tracks a few kilometers ahead.
No one was hurt. Just a delay.
When the news spread, Mira laughed, relief in her eyes.
"Well, I guess your feeling wasn't entirely useless."
I laughed too, though my hands were trembling.
As the train finally rolled out, I waved until it vanished around the curve.
The red sky slowly faded into gold.
Back in the car, I checked my phone—one new email notification.
From You (2035).
> "Good. You were there. She's safe for now.
Every moment you change writes another ending.
Keep watching the skies.
— You."
I sat there for a long time, the hum of the city returning in waves.
I didn't know what I was part of—or who I was becoming—but something in me had already crossed a line.
The silence I'd once feared now felt alive, pulsing with hidden instructions, like a song whose next verse I hadn't learned yet.
And somewhere far away, in some other year, another version of me might have been reading this same message, whispering the same silent promise:
Don't lose her again.