The voice on the other end softened. "We understand, Ajay. Your 'Legacy Package' has been activated. Please, open your front door. Your life is waiting."
Ajay walked to the massive oak doors, his heart hammering against his ribs. As the doors creaked open, the cold, sterile air of the mansion was replaced by the scent of fresh desi ghee and incense.
Standing there was a woman in an elegant, cream-colored saree, her salt-and-pepper hair tied in a neat bun. Beside her stood a man in his late thirties with Ajay's own jawline, and a five-year-old girl clutching a handmade drawing.
"Ajay? Why are you standing at the door? You'll catch a cold," the woman said, her voice filled with a decade's worth of shared secrets. She reached out and touched his cheek. Her hand wasn't cold like a stranger's; it was warm, calloused, and felt... real.
"Papa, look! I finished the painting for you!" the little girl chirped, tugging at his trousers.
For the next few hours, the 'Agency'
transformed the tomb into a home. They sat at the mahogany table, but it wasn't a business meeting. They argued over salt in the dal, laughed about a 'fake' family vacation in Shimla, and looked through photo albums that had appeared on the shelves—filled with photos of Ajay and this family, seamlessly edited into his past.
For the first time, Ajay didn't look at the clock. He was too busy listening to his 'son' talk about his day at the office. He felt a strange ache. It was a lie—a multi-million rupee simulation—but the tears that welled in his eyes were real.
As night fell, the 'wife' sat by his bed, holding his hand. "You've worked so hard for us, Ajay. It's okay to let go now."
Ajay looked at her, his vision blurring. "I spent seventy years buying the world, but I only needed this room."
"Sleep now," she whispered.
The clock struck 3:00 AM. The silence returned, but this time, it didn't feel like a predator. It felt like a goodbye.
Continue....