Chapter 1: The Station Between Seconds
Time didn't stop.
It simply sighed.
And in that sigh, between the ticking of one second and the next, Shyam awoke.
He sat on a wooden bench beneath a sky full of stars, yet no sky at all. The ceiling was a canvas of constellations, but the floor beneath his feet was stone—wet with dew, cold with silence. A train station stretched out before him, silent and endless, platforms suspended midair like floating thoughts.
There were clocks, hundreds of them.
None of them ticked.
He blinked.
Where was he?
More importantly: Who was Raitha?
The name sat warm on his tongue. He didn't remember speaking it, but it echoed in his throat like a lullaby he'd once been sung under a monsoon sky. Her face was smoke—hints of laughter, hair dancing like wind through leaves, eyes like dusk. But the details ran away the more he chased them.
And then, the sound.
Chug. Chug. Chug.
A train, slow and heavy, rolled into the station—not on tracks but through light. It breathed like a living thing, steam coiling like dreams into the star-drenched ceiling.
A man stepped out. He was tall, thin, with a coat the color of forgotten stories and a hat that tilted like it was listening to music no one else could hear.
"You missed your stop," the man said, in a voice like pages turning.
"Or perhaps, your life missed you."
Shyam stared. "Where… is this?"
"This," said the man, sweeping his arm with a flourish, "is the Station Between Seconds. A quiet place where time folds its arms and watches."
"I… don't understand."
"Good," said the man, smiling. "Understanding is the first thing people lose here. That means you haven't lost it yet."
He tipped his hat. "Call me Mr. Aran. I guide passengers like yourself."
"I wasn't traveling," Shyam said slowly. "At least, I don't think I was."
Mr. Aran leaned close. "Weren't you? All men in love are travelers. Some across oceans. Others across time."
That name again.
"Raitha…"
Mr. Aran's eyes sparkled. "Ah. So you do remember her. Or at least, a version of her."
"A version?"
"Time is a train, Shyam. But each carriage holds a different reality. Some hold memories. Some, regrets. Others still—possibilities. You may have loved Raitha in one of them. Or perhaps all."
"I need to find her."
"Good," said Mr. Aran. "That's why the train came."
Behind them, the train doors hissed open. Shyam glanced inside. The corridor was dim, lined with flickering lights and fading echoes. A song hummed from within—soft, familiar, unfinished.
"What happens if I board it?" Shyam asked.
"You move," Mr. Aran said. "Not forward. Not back. Inward."
He offered a small pocketwatch. The hands spun in opposite directions.
"It'll keep you from losing yourself entirely."
Shyam took it. The metal was warm—almost pulsing, like a heartbeat.
"And what if I get lost anyway?"
Mr. Aran's expression turned gentle. "Then we wait. And she finds you."
The whistle blew.
Shyam stepped onto the train.
---
The first carriage was a forest. No roof, just trees reaching up to the memory of sky. Fireflies flickered like lost thoughts. And ahead of him, a younger version of himself—a boy, maybe ten—was chasing a paper plane.
Shyam followed. The boy didn't look back, but spoke aloud:
"Why did you stop dreaming?"
Shyam froze.
The boy kept walking, barefoot over grass that glowed faintly beneath him.
"Dreams don't grow up," he said. "They wait."
"Wait for what?"
"For someone who remembers."
The paper plane landed in a small clearing. On it, scribbled in messy handwriting:
"I will meet you where time forgets to move."
—Raitha
Shyam touched the note. It dissolved into stardust.
---
He moved to the next carriage.
A room filled with clocks again—but this time, they were ticking. Loudly. Too loudly.
He covered his ears.
In the center of the room, stood her.
Raitha. Or someone who felt like her. She was turned away, looking into a mirror that showed not her reflection, but galaxies swirling like dreams being stirred.
"Raitha?"
She didn't turn. "Which version are you?" she asked softly.
"What do you mean?"
"There's always a version of you that gives up before the last stop. And one who waits too long."
"I'm the one still looking," he whispered.
She turned.
Eyes like falling stars.
"Then I hope your train doesn't derail," she said. "This place… it remembers those who forget."
She reached out, her fingers barely brushing his—
—and the lights shattered.
Darkness. Screeching metal. A rush of cold wind.
---
When Shyam opened his eyes, he was lying back on the station bench.
Mr. Aran stood nearby, sipping tea from a clock-shaped cup.
"You fainted," he said simply. "Happens to most during the second carriage."
Shyam sat up. "She was there. I saw her."
"Yes," said Mr. Aran. "But did you reach her?"
Shyam looked at his hand. A single thread of gold was looped around his finger. A promise not yet spoken.
"What is this?"
"A tether," Mr. Aran said. "To the version of her that's still waiting. Follow it."
Shyam stood. The train waited. This time, the door glowed gently—welcoming, but uncertain.
"Will I ever find her?" he asked.
Mr. Aran smiled sadly.
"Depends," he said. "On whether you're running toward her, or away from everything else."
The whistle blew again.
And Shyam stepped aboard.
The door closed behind him with a hush, like the exhale of a memory trying not to be remembered.
This carriage was quieter—no ticking, no stars. Only whispers.
Thousands of them.
They slipped between shadows and light, curling in the corners, clinging to Shyam's thoughts like ivy. He walked slowly, hand still clutched around the pocketwatch. The gold thread from his finger glowed faintly, stretched taut like a map made of longing.
The train wasn't just moving through time. It was moving through him.
A mirror to his left reflected not his face—but dozens. Each Shyam in a different world. Some smiling. Some tired. Some broken.
One version had aged, wrinkles carved by regret, staring into a journal.
Another ran through a sunlit street, laughter bursting from his chest.
But none of them had Raitha beside them.
He walked faster.
The whispers grew louder.
> "She waited at Platform 13. You never came."
"You chose silence when she needed a goodbye."
"You remembered her too late."
Shyam shut his eyes. "No," he whispered. "Not this time."
The gold thread tugged—guiding him.
And then he saw it.
A small door. Wooden. Faintly glowing.
He opened it.
---
Inside was a room made entirely of glass. Each wall showed a different moment.
Raitha, sitting by a train window, headphones on, tears drying on her cheeks.
Raitha, standing beneath a sakura tree, waiting as petals fell around her—alone.
Raitha, asleep on a bench, clutching a paper with his name written across it a hundred times.
Raitha, standing in a white dress, facing an altar… but the groom was missing.
Every version of her—waiting. Wishing.
Shyam stepped into the center. A platform of moonlight. A circular table appeared, and atop it—a single object: a silver locket.
He opened it. Inside, a note:
"If love is the train, then memory is the track. But what if I am the station? Will you ever arrive?"
"Raitha…" he breathed. His voice cracked.
Behind him, a soft step.
He turned.
It was her.
But not the same as before.
This Raitha looked… transparent. Ethereal. Her edges shimmered like unfinished dreams.
"You found me," she said.
Shyam stepped closer, afraid she might vanish.
"I've looked through centuries," he said. "Through stars, through selves. I don't even know which 'me' I am anymore."
"You're the one who loved me enough to get here," she replied. "That's enough."
He tried to reach for her.
His hand passed through.
She smiled sadly. "I'm only an echo, Shyam. A memory you held too tightly."
Tears welled in his eyes.
"But I remember your warmth," he said. "The way you tucked your hair behind your ear when you were shy. The way you hated parting trains."
She laughed softly. "And you always missed your own because you stayed behind just to wave."
"Because I hoped you'd come back."
She paused. Then gently placed her palm where his heart beat.
"You've crossed dimensions for me," she whispered. "But there's one more to go."
"Which one?"
"The true self."
"The place where time and love aren't separate. Where you aren't running after me… because I never left."
The glass walls shimmered. Each image of Raitha dissolved into golden dust.
"You mean… you're still alive?" he asked, breath caught between hope and heartbreak.
She tilted her head. "In one world. One version. Maybe not here. Maybe not now."
She pointed to the gold thread tied around his finger.
"That leads not to a person. But a promise."
"Then where do I go?"
"To the center."
A final door opened. Shaped like an hourglass, filled with stars.
He turned to her.
"Will I see you again?"
Her smile reached through lifetimes.
"You already are."
---
The train lurched.
And everything turned dark.
---
Shyam awoke not on a bench, but floating—weightless.
He was no longer on the train.
He stood in a circular space. Endless, boundless. A mirror of the cosmos.
And across from him—another Shyam.
This one wore no scars. No confusion. Just quiet understanding.
The True Self.
"You've walked far," the other Shyam said.
"I want to stop walking," he said. "I want to arrive."
"Then listen."
The True Self raised a hand.
And everything fell quiet.
A whistle blew.
One last train approached—a small one, humble, golden, flickering in and out of sight.
This wasn't a train of time.
It was a train of return.
"Board it," his True Self said. "And open your eyes."
Shyam did.
Chapter 2.5: Platform 0
The golden train slowed.
Steam hissed like sighs of stars.
Shyam stepped off onto a platform that didn't seem built of stone or wood—but memories.
They glowed beneath his feet—flashes of rainy days, laughter under trees, missed messages, paused playlists, and little gazes that lasted too long.
The place was silent… but not still. The air shimmered with emotion, as if the world itself was waiting.
Ahead of him, under a soft white light…
Raitha.
But not a ghost. Not a memory.
Her.
She stood with her hands folded over her chest, eyes wide as if they saw a miracle they never dared ask for.
"…Shyam?" she whispered.
He stepped closer. His throat tightened.
This wasn't a dream. This wasn't one of the echo-versions. This was her—her scent, her soul, her warmth.
"You waited," he said, voice trembling.
"You came," she breathed.
They both laughed. They both cried.
He touched her cheek gently, like testing the surface of heaven.
"I searched through lifetimes for this moment," he said.
"And I stood on every platform hoping this one would come."
She took his hand.
"I thought love was just a memory we leave behind when time forgets us," she whispered.
"But you… you remembered."
"I never forgot."
They embraced.
The station dimmed around them, like the world giving them a moment meant only for two.
"I love you," she said.
"I always did," he replied.
Their faces drew closer, breath mingling with the soft rhythm of the unseen stars.
Their lips almost touched—
And then—
it shattered.
The platform crumbled beneath him.
She gasped—reaching.
"SHYAM!"
But gravity—or something far deeper—pulled him into the abyss.
---
He fell.
Through time.
Through space.
Through versions of himself.
Through every kiss he never had, every goodbye he never said.
No end.
No sound.
Just falling.
Endlessly.
Until—
---
A sharp beep.
Sterile light.
The scent of antiseptic and sun.
He opened his eyes.
Ceiling.
Then—blurry shapes.
Then—
Her.
Raitha.
Beside his bed.
In tears. Smiling.
Real. Solid. Present.
"You came back," she whispered, reaching for his hand.
He could barely speak. His throat burned with unshed stars.
"…Is this…?"
She nodded. "I waited."
He coughed. "Did I fall…?"
Her thumb wiped a tear from his cheek. "You found your way through."
He stared at her—heart collapsing in on itself and blooming at once.
"Where am I?" he whispered.
She leaned in.
"Home."
Shyam and Raitha lived a quiet life after the hospital.
Sunlight spilled into their apartment every morning like a whispered promise. They made tea together, talked about the mundane like it was poetry, and sometimes just… existed, hand in hand, beneath the same sky.
One evening, Shyam looked over at Raitha, brushing her hair in the golden dusk, and whispered,
"This… this is what I was chasing through the stars."
Raitha smiled. "Then don't let it go."
But one rainy night, on his way back from work, a truck's headlights carved silence into the world.
Blackness.
---
He woke up.
Not in a hospital. Not in a station.
In a forest.
Sunlight filtered through leaves. He was young, maybe 12, his clothes muddy from a fall.
A voice giggled behind him.
Raitha—young too. Innocent. Wide-eyed.
They ran through the woods, chasing dragonflies, stories, and the rhythm of childhood.
Under a tree, Shyam turned to her.
"I think I want to marry you when I grow up."
Raitha blinked, then smiled shyly. "Then let's grow up fast."
And they did.
They lived a quiet village life. Raised goats. Planted rice. Fell asleep to the lullaby of cicadas and shared silence.
Until one day—blood tests.
Cancer.
It spread like ink through the pages of his life.
Raitha held his hand as he lay on a futon.
"Don't go," she said.
"I think I always do," he whispered.
And he closed his eyes.
---
He woke up.
This time, on a rooftop in a modern city.
Raitha stood beside him, both older now, both strangers to their pasts.
They were lovers again. They danced under neon lights, promised forever on apartment balconies.
They were happy.
Until—
A fall.
A fire.
An illness.
Each time he died, it tore a thread from his soul.
---
Fourth life.
A house near the sea.
Raitha painted, and he wrote poems no one read.
Peaceful.
Then gone.
---
Fifth life.
They never met.
He searched and searched. Only a voice on the radio, soft and familiar. Never reaching. Always out of tune.
He walked into the ocean that time, hoping the tide remembered her name.
---
He awoke on golden clouds.
Weightless.
Everything silent.
A Gate loomed ahead, glowing not with light—but memories.
He reached out.
The moment his hand touched it, a voice echoed—not from above, but within.
> "You lived through four happy endings. Now… bear the pain of sadness for once."
He staggered. "What do you mean?"
No reply.
Only silence.
Then—
Black.
---
He opened his eyes.
A tiny one-room apartment. Faint smell of instant noodles. Faint hum of city traffic. Rain on glass.
He blinked.
Who… am I?
His phone buzzed. A reminder: "Milk, eggs, batteries."
Routine.
He left for the convenience store.
It was evening. Orange sky. Cold air.
Outside the store, he saw a girl.
She wore a yellow scarf.
She looked… familiar.
She smiled at the cashier. Laughed softly. Held a book in her hand titled: "Timelines and Other Nonsense."
He froze.
His heart skipped.
He wanted to say something.
He felt something.
Like a memory without a shape.
But he didn't move.
She walked past him.
He turned.
She was gone.
---
Years passed.
He grew old.
Married someone else.
Lived fine.
Died quietly.
Never knowing the name that haunted his dreams.
---
The End.