Rohan's eyes shot open.
The familiar hum of ceiling fans, the dull buzz of fluorescent lights, and the smell of cheap chalk dust struck Rohan like a hammer to the chest.
He opened his eyes to find himself seated in his old classroom—Room 11-B of St. Gabriel's High School. The walls, the worn-out wooden desks, the sound of pages turning, the sleepy murmurs of students waiting for class to start… it was all exactly as it had been. The soft afternoon sunlight poured in from the louvered windows, catching motes of dust that danced in midair, frozen in time. Familiar. Almost comforting.
It took him a moment to breathe.
Another moment to believe.
He blinked rapidly, as if trying to clear a foggy lens. Was this real? Was this a dream?
Then he saw them—classmates who had long since become echoes in his mind. The kid who used to borrow his pens. The girl who used to pass notes during chemistry. His old seat partner, still chewing the end of his pen like always.
He was back.
And for a moment, a fragile moment, Rohan dared to feel peace.
"This can't be…" Rohan whispered under his breath. A strange warmth flooded his chest. For a fleeting second, he allowed himself to smile.
The faces around him were those he had long accepted as gone — his classmates laughing, chatting, unaware of the weight the universe had just placed on Rohan's shoulders. Their voices rang in his ears like echoes from another life. Because they were. And he now knew that — literally.
But just as quickly as the joy rose, dread followed.
A sharp chill ran down his spine.
Today. The day of 19th August 2018.
This was that day.
The day his father died.
His fingers clenched around the edge of his desk. The air grew heavy, pressing in on him from all sides. MahaVishnu words echoed in his skull like thunder— "Your father's death cannot be reversed. It is a fixed point."
"No…" he muttered, panic slipping into his voice.
He stood up abruptly, his chair screeching against the tile floor, heads turning toward him.
He didn't care.
He rushed out of the classroom like a man possessed, ignoring the teacher's protests and the confused murmurs behind him. His phone trembled in his hand as he tried dialling his father's number, desperation overriding rational thought.
"Come on, come on…"
The call didn't even ring.
Number unavailable.
"No, no, no! Just pick up—please!" He muttered, stumbling through the hallway.
And then it happened.
He didn't hear the hurried footsteps until he collided into someone in the hallway —the assistant principal.
"Mrs. Morrison".
The woman who, in his last life, had delivered the news that shattered his world. She gasped slightly at the impact, but her face fell the moment she looked into Rohan's eyes.
She didn't say anything. Didn't have to.
Rohan already knew.
His knees buckled, his phone slipping from his hand and clattering on the tiles. The walls around him felt like they were closing in, the hallway spinning as the same piercing grief from a lifetime ago exploded inside his chest.
Tears rolled down his cheeks before he even realized he was crying.
"No matter what I do… I can't save him," he whispered into the void. "Why… why just him?"
Then he felt a small hand on his shoulder.
"Rohan?" Arya's voice was small, hopeful, and painfully unaware.
"We need to go to the hospital! They said Dad was in an accident but he'll be fine, right?" Her eyes were searching his face for reassurance. Still in denial. Still clutching to the idea that their father was invincible.
But Rohan couldn't lie. Not anymore. He could only look at her, grief etched so deeply into his expression that it told her everything words never could.
Arya's hands trembled. "No… no, you're wrong. He's going to be okay. He always is. He promised! Ms. Miller tell him that Dad is okay. He is going to be okay. Everything is fine."
Rohan pulled her into a hug, burying his face into her hair. "I'm sorry, Arya… I'm so, so sorry."
This wasn't like remembering.
This was reliving.
Ms. Miller was already grabbing her car keys, her own face pale with shock and worry. "Come on, both of you. We'll get there as fast as we can."
The ride to the hospital was a blur of sirens in the distance, the pulse of Arya's sobs, and the silence between breaths that Rohan would never forget. Every red light felt like an eternity. Every second stretched cruelly.
As they pulled into the emergency bay, Rohan was already unbuckling, helping Arya out before Ms. Miller had even stopped the engine.
The hospital was cold, too bright, too quiet for a place filled with so much pain.
They rushed into the ER. And there—just beyond the double doors—was Veena.
Collapsed on the floor.
Her back was against the wall, her hands trembling as they clutched at her scarf. Her eyes were wide and distant, swollen from tears. She wasn't alone. Michael and Rosa, Hector's Father and Sister, sat nearby, Rosa curled up in Michael's arms, both of them crying, both of them broken.
Arya gasped. "Mom?" She stumbled forward.
Veena looked up. And for a moment, the world paused.
Her gaze locked onto her children. And in that single glance, everything collapsed.
Arya stumbled toward her. "Mom? Where's Dad?"
Veena looked up, her tear-streaked face crumpling as she opened her arms. Arya collapsed into her embrace, sobbing.
"No," Arya whispered, as her mother held her. "No, please, no. He promised we'd all have dinner together tonight. He promised..."
Veena couldn't speak. She only wept. Loud, raw, and heart-wrenching sobs that came from someplace deeper than the chest—from the soul.
Rohan followed a bit behind, his legs moving on instinct. He crouched beside them, arms wrapping around both Arya and his mother. His chest heaved with silent grief, the kind that has no sound but shakes the body like a storm.
They stayed like that—three fragments of a family trying to hold each other together while the centre had fallen away.
Arya's cries joined her mother as the last threads of denial unravelled. She knew now.
He wasn't coming back.
And Rohan… Rohan closed his eyes, let the tears fall freely, and whispered a quiet goodbye to the man he had loved more than anything in the world.
Their father, Hector Rafael Delgado, was gone.
And everything had changed.
There were no words, no comforting hands. Just the raw, ragged ache of loss—as fresh and vicious as the first time. No amount of divine warning could've steeled him for this.
18/08/2018
The funeral was quiet.
Unlike last time, there was no rain. A subtle but unnerving shift. The ceremony had been moved up an hour earlier due to scheduling. Rohan's eyes briefly flickered up to the sky as he stood by the gates of the funeral ground. It should have been raining, like last time. The thick clouds hung low, heavy with the promise of a storm, yet the air was still, the ground dry. It was an odd thing to notice midst the rush of emotions, but the absence of rain gnawed at him, a subtle splinter in his mind.
He shook his head, forcing his attention back to the funeral procession ahead. Maybe the change in timing had something to do with it, he reasoned, dismissing the thought before it could take root. There were bigger things to worry about—like the ache in his chest that no explanation could ease.
Same scent of incense and sandalwood mingling with freshly dug earth.
The eulogy echoed with the same words spoken before. His grandfather sobbed uncontrollably again, his composure shattered as he hurled accusations at Veena—his pain too blinding to be just or fair.
His mother stood motionless. Not out of strength, but from complete emotional depletion. Arya clung to her hand, refusing to cry until the casket was lowered, trying to brave for her father, one last time.
But Rohan was different.
He wasn't just the grieving son. He was the conscious son. A man trapped in the body of a boy, watching everything unfolds with haunted clarity.
He stood still, silent. Watching.
And then…
He saw him.
Mark.
His father's old friend. The man who had consoled them, comforted them — and later, betrayed them.
He was standing alone, hands in his pockets, wearing a blank expression. But his eyes…
Rohan squinted.
Last time, he hadn't noticed. Maybe he was too numb. Too consumed by grief. But now, with his mind clear, he saw it.
Mark's eyes looked… empty.
Not like a man in mourning. Not like a man with guilt.
They were the eyes of someone who had no reason left to live.
The eyes of a living corpse. Rohan had seen those eyes before. He saw them in mirror every morning, every day after Arya died, after Veena followed her, after he had nothing left. Nothing but emptiness in his life.
Rohan's chest tightened. A cold, inexplicable shiver danced along his spine.
Why would the man who sold his soul for greed look so devastated?
And standing right beside Mark — almost too perfectly placed — was a figure Rohan didn't recognize. Dressed in black. Watching him.
Motionless.
Like they were waiting.
But Rohan didn't notice.
He was too consumed by the fury swelling in his chest, too focused on the man who shouldn't be there.
That traitorous son of a bitch.
He has the audacity to show his face here?
The grief that had been tearing him apart all morning hardened into a sharp, molten rage. His father was barely in the ground, and this parasite stood here, uninvited, pretending to care. Pretending to grieve.
Rohan's fists clenched.
He took a step forward, jaw tight, ready to storm toward Mark and drag him out of the funeral, consequences be damned.
But just as he lifted his foot, the world tilted. The air shifted—just slightly. And a voice, calm yet deeply knowing, echoed inside his mind.
"I wouldn't recommend that."
Rohan froze.
What the hell was that?