Long before Aman became the man of the blade and the hospital, before the clinical cold of the SCU replaced the warmth of his heart, he was just a boy.
He was a sapling in his teens his roots slowly spreading in the soils of Banaras, unaware of the storm that was coming for his future. His father always looked at him with eyes that saw the invisible.
He wanted Aman to carry the weight of his family's legacy-to do what his family couldn't do. But as the years passed, the old man realized his son was a creature of a new generation.
Aman no longer had place for prayers or rituals on his mind. He had lost his belief in the gods, perhaps because he never truly understood who or what god was meant to be. His father didn't react with anger or bitterness, instead he watched with a quiet, knowing support.
He saw Aman and Sophie together, always side by-side like two peas on a pod. Even back then, the golden pendant rested against his father's chest, a silent witness to their youth.
Aman went to medical school, broke himself down, and rebuilt himself into a surgeon with Sophie by his side. When he finally returned home years later, his face split by a wide triumphant, grin.
He clutched his medical certificate to his chest as if it were a shield against the ghosts of his past.
'Look, Father! i did it!" Aman exclaimed, dropping to his knees to touch his father's feet in the traditional sign of respect. "Well done son," his father replied his voice thick with pride.
He looked over Aman's shoulder with a playful glint in his eyes. "I only hope you didn't traumatize poor Sophie too much with your stubbornness during those long nights of studying." Right on cue, Sophie entered through the front gate, rolling her eyes at the old man's teasing.
She didn't bow like Aman; she lacked his formal restraint instead, she rushed forward and threw her arms around the old priest. "I missed you and your lame jokes, uncle!" she laughed Aman stood up, folding his arms in mock annoyance. "Hey, when will i get a hug like that? Dad, isn't that a bit unfair?"
"Oh, come on don't be a crybaby," Sophie teased, pulling back and motioning for Aman to join them in a massive, three-way embrace. As they held each other, the air between them seemed to vibrate, Aman's father felt a sudden, searing heat emanating from the golden sphere around his neck. He looked down and saw it-the pendant was radiating a faint ethereal golden light.
There was no fear in the old man's heart as he watched the glow. There was no sadness. Only a calm, satisfied smile. he patted his son's head gently, his eyes lingering on the boy's face.
"Aman...can we talk later?" he asked, his voice suddenly serious. "Sure dad," Aman had replied easily. At the same time, he thought the conversation his father wanted to have would be absurd-some old-world lecture on spirits or destiny. He only agreed to listen out of respect.
He had no idea that those absurd words would eventually be the only thing keeping him from falling into the abyss.
Aman's sleep was not a rest; it was a disappearance. For the first time in years, the thousands of thought that tormented his mind were diluted by a heavy, dreamless slumber. Outside, the sky shifted from ink-black void to bruised purple of dawn and finally to the blinding gold of Banaras morning. His alarm began to wail at it's scheduled time, but the man who usually woke up minutes before the first beep didn't move, He was anchored to the bed by the weight he couldn't name.
It was 10 am when Aman finally dragged his eyes open. His vision was still distorted, the room swimming in a post sleep haze, but the haunting dread of the previous night had vanished. The "Time-glitch" and the "monk" felt like a fever dream- logical impossibilities that surely had a rational explanation he just hadn't found yet.
He navigated his apartment with heavy limbs heading straight for the kitchen. Aman had always been a tea person, finding the bitter bite of coffee too aggressive for his structured morning. As he set the water to boil, he reached for the small ceramic jar where he kept a specific "dead brown plant".
For as long as he could remember, adding a pinch of this dried herb to his tea was a ritual. He had no clue what the plant actually was or what it did to him, yet he added it with the same precision he used to dose a patient.
But today, he stopped. His hand hovered over the jar. "Hmm....i wonder what happens if i skip it today" he muttered his voice raspy from sleep " i don't even like the taste.. it's earthy bitter...yuck it takes al the joy out of the tea."
As he sat on his sofa, sipping his plain tea, a small sharp sensation pulsed in his wrist. It felt like a needle prick from the inside out, but he dismissed it with a practiced shrug.. just a pinched nerve, he told himself, Normal.
He turned on his tv and plugged in a gaming console he had bought months ago and never had the luxury to play. Today, time seemed to be granting him a rare, quiet truce. He lost himself in the digital world, cursing at difficult bosses and getting immersed in the story's lore, finding comfort in the reality where he controlled the outcome.
However, as Aman focused on the screen, he remained completely oblivious to the shelf behind him. The black blook which usually stood as a dark monolith among his medical texts, was changing, it's deep midnight black leather was slowly losing it's pigment, turning a sickly, ashen gray. Even more disturbing, the jagged "snake mark" was etched into the cover was beginning to fade, as if the ink was being sucked back into the pages.
By choosing "normal" tea Aman had unwittingly started a countdown. He was enjoying the calmness, unaware that the shield around his reality was thinning.