In the quiet of the night, beneath a sky spread wide over Gujarat's vast expanse, Aryan sat in his room staring at the tattoo etched on his wrist—a delicate, intricate clock whose hands occasionally ticked backwards. Since the incident with Echo, nothing felt real anymore.
The world had shifted.
He had escaped, but he was not free. Every breath carried the weight of something immense. And the silence that followed his survival screamed louder than Echo ever did. Aryan lay sleepless for nights, his mind swirling with visions of mirrors, of deep underground caverns, of watchers and whispers and truths he wasn't ready to accept.
That night, as his parents slept, Aryan stood at the edge of the terrace, the moonlight casting long shadows across his face. His thoughts were a mess—fragments of panic, glimpses of time stalling, and the feeling of complete helplessness.
"I don't even know what I'm capable of…" he whispered.
The morning after, Aryan made a decision. He wasn't going to wait for another attack. He couldn't.
He needed to understand the Law of Time—his Law. But the Watcher hadn't appeared again, and the tattoo had gone dormant. Still, deep within, something pulsed. A call. Not urgent, but ancient. Like time itself had left a message for him to decode.
So he crafted a lie.
At breakfast, over the usual upma and tea, Aryan turned to his parents. Rajiv Sharma, his father, a history professor with always more concern than his expressions could hold, looked up as Aryan cleared his throat.
"Mumma… Papa (Dad)… I've been invited by Ritesh and the guys for a small trip. Kind of a backpacking plan. They want to travel around a few places in the North—maybe Himachal, maybe Nepal. They're calling it a 'digital detox'."
His mother frowned. "A month-long detox?"
"Two, maybe," Aryan said quickly. "It's… college vacation. Everyone's going somewhere. And I need a break too."
Rajiv raised an eyebrow. "You've never been on a trip like this."
"I know. But I think I need this one. For myself."
There was silence.
Finally, his father nodded. "Take care of yourself. And call us. Every single day, okay, beta (son)?"
"I will, Papa (Dad). Promise."
Later that evening, Aryan met his group of friends at the tea stall just outside their college campus. A breeze swept the dust lazily along the pavement.
"So, you really told your parents you're going with us?" Ritesh asked, sipping chai.
"Yeah," Aryan said. "Told them I'd be backpacking and soul-searching."
"Bro, you can barely find your socks in the morning. Soul-searching? Really?" chirped Amit, grinning.
Everyone laughed.
"Oh, come on," Aryan replied, grinning too. "They bought it. My acting skills deserve an Oscar."
"More like a Razzle," said Nikhil. "For worst performance in a leading lie."
The boys erupted in laughter again.
"Just don't go full yogi on us and come back with a man-bun," Ritesh said. "And don't fall in love with a yak or something."
Aryan chuckled. "No promises."
They joked, laughed, teased one another for hours. And as the night wore on, Aryan looked around—at the smiling faces, the shared memories, the lightness of their banter. A part of him wondered if this would be the last time he felt so… normal.
The next morning, Aryan packed only what he truly needed: some clothes, a notebook, his phone (turned off), and the compass the Watcher had left near the temple ruins. It pulsed slightly, not with direction, but with rhythm.
Outside, Ritesh came on a bike to keep up the act. Aryan hugged his mother and shook his father's hand.
"You sure you have enough money?" Rajiv asked.
"Yeah, all sorted."
They waved him off.
As the bike disappeared into the distance, Aryan asked Ritesh to drop him near the old temple where everything began. It was abandoned now, with vines wrapping the stone columns and owls hiding in broken shrines. But Aryan knew this wasn't just stone anymore.
This was the threshold.
He waited until Ritesh left. Then he stepped into the shadow of the temple, closed his eyes, and then
The compass glowed.
The world blurred.
Aryan found himself no longer in Gujarat. The air was dry and crystalline. The ground beneath was grey like the sands of an ancient hourglass. Great clock faces rose like moons in the sky—frozen, shattered, incomplete.
And then the Watcher appeared. Draped in cloaks of starlight and shadow.
"You are ready to seek control. But time does not yield. You must first prove you are worthy."
"I don't care about worth. I just… I need to stop feeling like I'm drowning in something I don't understand."
The Watcher raised a hand.
"Three trials await. Not of strength. But of self. This realm will test your heart, your fears, and your identity. And when—if—you emerge, the Law of Time may consider you."
Aryan felt his knees tremble. But he nodded. "Where do I begin?"
The Watcher pointed. "Begin by walking."
As Aryan stepped forward into a shifting desert of broken memories and frozen seconds, he whispered to himself:
"I'll understand you, Law. I'll earn you. I have to."
Meanwhile…
Back in Gujarat, the wind carried a strange silence. His house sat still. His parents waited for messages. Days passed. Weeks.
The city moved on.
Aryan did not know what is waiting for him as When he will returns… nothing will be the same. Because time does not wait for anyone. And neither do consequences.