Ishaan was dreaming.
But he was awake.
He stood in the grove, just like always.
But Aarohi was older. Wearing white.
A gold chain with Vrinda's feather hung around her neck.
She looked at him and whispered:
"You stayed too long. You forgot your body."
He woke up gasping.
Aarohi sat beside him, wide-eyed.
"I had a dream," she said.
"You were… 60. And still trying to record the bansuri."
Ishaan blinked.
"The twelfth hour has started."
🕰️ What Is the Twelfth Hour?
In Vrinda's diary, a final riddle had always remained unsolved:
"Beware the twelfth hour — the time when time itself forgets where it stands."
It wasn't midnight.
It was the hour after — when karma, rebirth, and choices clash.
The next day, as Ishaan tried to analyze sound logs, his voice echoed in delay.
Not once.
But twice.
One echo said:
"I love her. But I'm scared to stay."
And the other:
"I stayed. But she never came back."
Aarohi touched the mirror again.
This time, instead of reflection — she saw a version of herself, in a lab coat.
Working alone.
Holding a bansuri.
Whispering:
"No one remembers Vrinda anymore."
The visions came faster now.
Future selves. Past selves.
A version of them dancing in Raas.
A version fighting in rain.
A version standing at a grave.
Aarohi fell to her knees.
"What is this?! Which version are we?! What's real?!"
Ishaan held her shoulders.
"Time's breaking, Aarohi.
Because we're close.
Too close.
To choosing."
Aarohi whispered:
"Choosing what?"
Ishaan looked up.
At the grove.
At the empty spot in the circle.
"Whether we become part of the Raas forever…
Or return…
And forget."