Ashwood looked smaller than memory but heavier than reality.
When Aarohi Sen's taxi crossed the rusted bridge into town, fog rose from the river like breath from something sleeping under the water. The wheels hummed differently here, as if the road no longer trusted motion. Pines leaned inward on both sides, their branches tangled like crooked fingers trying to stitch the sky closed.
Twelve years had not softened the place. If anything, it had sharpened it.
Aarohi sat rigid in the back seat, her fingers locked around her handbag. She told herself she was only here for paperwork. Her grandmother's house sale. One day. One signature. Then back to life.
But Ashwood had a way of unpeeling lies.
Her phone buzzed weakly. No signal. GPS spun uselessly, the arrow turning circles like it was dizzy.
"Stop at Maple Street," Aarohi said.
The driver did not reply.
His shoulders stiffened. The car slowed. The engine's hum lowered into something uneasy, like it was afraid to keep running.
They passed the familiar market road, but it looked stretched, wrong, like someone had copied Ashwood badly from memory. Buildings leaned at angles they never used to. Windows reflected clouds that weren't in the sky.
"Sir?" Aarohi said.
The taxi rolled to a stop.
Not on Maple Street.
Not anywhere she recognized.
They were before an iron gate, rust flaking like dried blood. It stood half-open, not welcoming, not closed — waiting.
Beyond it, trees crowded around a single house, choking it slowly.
Paint peeled.
Roof sagged.
Windows filmed over like blind eyes.
A crooked metal plate read:
27.
Aarohi frowned. "This isn't my grandmother's place."
The driver finally moved. Slowly, he lifted his eyes to the mirror. His face looked thinner than before, like the fog had eaten part of him.
"This is where roads forget people," he whispered.
Her stomach dropped. "What does that mean?"
Before she could open the door herself, the lock clicked.
Her suitcase slid out onto the gravel.
Not tipped.
Rolled.
By itself.
The gate creaked wider.
The driver reversed suddenly, tires screeching softly, and disappeared into the fog without looking back.
Aarohi stood alone.
Ashwood had delivered her.