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Chapter 3 — The First Email
The weekend passed in a blur of restless hours and half-slept nights.
Every sound in my apartment—dripping faucet, creaking window hinge, the buzz of my phone—felt like an omen.
Mira called from Shimla on Sunday evening.
Her voice carried that mountain echo, like she was speaking from a dream.
"Arjun, you'd love it here," she said. "There's this café on a cliff. They have a piano with half the keys missing—it's so broken it's perfect."
I smiled. "Sounds like us."
She laughed. "Always the poet. I'll be back by Wednesday, okay? Don't disappear before that."
I wanted to say I never could.
But instead, I said, "Just… be careful."
After the call, I stared at the blank wall opposite me.
Her laughter still floated in the air, mixing with the city's hum.
Everything felt fragile, as if one wrong word could make the world collapse.
I opened my laptop again.
No new messages.
But the folder list on the left had changed.
A new folder had appeared: "Drafts (Sent 2035)"
My throat tightened. I clicked it.
Inside was a single message.
It wasn't an incoming email—it was one I hadn't written yet.
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> Subject: "The Last Letter"
To: Younger Me (2025)
Date: August 12, 2035
"You'll wonder if any of this was real.
You'll think you imagined me, that you dreamt the whole thing.
Don't.
There are things I wish I hadn't tried to fix.
Every memory is a thread—you tug one, the rest unravel.
If you reach the point where you can't tell what's real, go to the place where it started.
Go back to the Blue Note.
You'll find what you left behind.
— You."
---
I leaned back, heart pounding.
The timestamp was ten years in the future—but somehow, it was already sitting in my drafts, like a ghost waiting for me to hit send someday.
I whispered to the empty room, "What the hell is happening to me?"
No answer, of course.
Just rain again, tapping on the glass.
---
Monday morning, the air felt thick, like the city itself was holding its breath.
At work, my students noticed I was distracted.
One girl asked if I was sick.
I told her I just hadn't slept.
During lunch, I kept checking my phone for any sign of Mira's train updates. Nothing unusual. She'd reached Shimla safely.
Still, a heavy dread crawled under my ribs.
Maybe it was the tone of that draft—the way my future self sounded tired, almost broken.
When I got home that night, I did something I hadn't done in months.
I picked up my guitar.
The strings were cold under my fingers, slightly rusted from neglect.
I strummed slowly, searching for the melody that had once belonged to Mira—the one I could never finish.
The tune came back in pieces, like scattered memories finding their way home.
Halfway through, I noticed something strange: the sound of my old analog recorder playing back faintly, though I hadn't touched it.
I walked over.
The red light blinked. It was already recording.
I rewound a few seconds and pressed play.
> [Tape crackle]
"Don't stop playing. The music keeps the loop stable."
[End]
I froze.
That was my voice. Older. Rougher.
The guitar slipped from my hands, landing with a dull thud.
I ran to the laptop. The screen had lit up again—one new email.
> From: You (2035)
Subject: "She's on her way back."
"This is the point where everything changes.
When she returns, don't meet her at the station.
Wait for her call.
You'll understand why soon."
I didn't know whether to obey or to fight it.
Because every instruction so far—every warning—had come true.
And yet, something deep inside me whispered that I was being herded toward a version of life I hadn't chosen.
I stared at the blinking cursor.
> "What if I do meet her at the station?" I typed.
The reply came instantly.
> "Then the cycle restarts."
I sat there, staring at that single line until dawn.
Outside, the city woke in shades of gold and grey.
Maybe it was madness.
Maybe it was destiny.
But either way, I realized I was no longer just writing songs about time—I was living inside one.
The melody I'd been playing earlier still lingered in my ears.
It didn't sound unfinished anymore.