---
Chapter 4 — The Distance Between Then and Now
Three days after the last email, Mira returned from Shimla.
I didn't go to the station. I waited, just like the message told me to.
When my phone finally rang that evening, I nearly dropped it.
"Hey," she said, voice light but tired. "I'm back. You disappeared again."
I swallowed. "I—uh—didn't want to crowd you."
"Crowd me?" she laughed. "You're the least crowded person I know."
There was a pause. I could hear the faint crackle of traffic behind her, maybe an auto-rickshaw honking somewhere. Then she said, softer, "Come over. I brought something for you."
---
Her flat was the same—warm, chaotic, and filled with photographs.
Frames leaned against the wall, fairy lights draped like falling stars.
She always said she hated clean lines. "Perfection is boring," she once told me. "Give me flaws with soul."
Mira was in the kitchen, unwrapping a small box.
"Shimla was beautiful," she said. "Cold, quiet. But weirdly… familiar. Like déjà vu."
That word made me stiffen.
"Familiar how?" I asked.
She shrugged, handing me the box. "You ever get that feeling that you've lived a day before? Like you know what's going to happen next?"
Inside the box was an old film camera, black leather with silver trim. It looked vintage—something from the 1980s.
"I found this at a flea market," she said. "But here's the creepy part—it had an undeveloped roll inside. Thought you'd like to help me find out what's on it."
The moment she said it, the air in the room changed.
That faint humming I'd started hearing lately—barely perceptible, like electricity in my veins—grew stronger.
"What kind of film?" I asked quietly.
"Fuji. Expired." She smiled. "Let's see if ghosts live in old negatives."
---
We dropped the roll off at a small photo studio the next day.
The owner, an old man with half-moon glasses, looked at the cartridge and frowned.
"This is old," he muttered. "Might not develop properly."
"Try anyway," Mira said. "We'll come back tomorrow."
As we left, she hooked her arm around mine, and for a second everything felt almost normal again—until we passed a bus stop, and I froze.
A poster flapped against the pole, rain-soaked and fading.
A music event advertisement: Blue Note Café – Friday Night, 8 PM – Arjun Malhotra Live.
But the date printed below was August 12, 2035.
I blinked hard. The number was real, printed, not smudged or mistaken.
Mira didn't seem to notice; she was already ahead, scrolling through her phone.
My heart slammed against my ribs.
August 12, 2035—the same date as the draft email I'd found.
---
That night, I didn't sleep.
I searched for the café's website, but there was nothing—no upcoming event, no booking under my name. The owner hadn't even announced next month's schedule.
Still, the image of that poster wouldn't leave me.
At 2:00 a.m., I got another email.
> From: You (2035)
Subject: "The Photos."
"When you see the pictures, don't panic.
You were there once. You'll remember when the sky turns red again.
— You."
I stared at it for a long time, then shut the laptop.
I didn't want to believe it anymore.
But belief was no longer optional—it was infectious.
---
When we picked up the developed photos the next day, the old man looked uneasy.
"Something wrong?" I asked.
He hesitated. "Maybe nothing. But the negatives were… strange. They looked new. Like they were shot recently, not decades ago."
Mira laughed. "Maybe your chemicals are possessed."
The man didn't laugh back.
We took the prints home.
There were twenty-four in total, glossy 4x6 frames, each one a fragment of memory that didn't belong to either of us.
Mountains. A small café. A park bench. A lake.
And then—on the 19th photo—me.
I was sitting at a wooden table, playing guitar. Mira was across from me, holding her camera.
We looked happy. The light behind us was sunset red.
"Mira," I whispered, throat dry, "when was this taken?"
She frowned. "What do you mean? I've never seen this café before. Have you?"
I nodded slowly.
"Yeah," I said. "It's Blue Note."
She tilted her head. "Arjun… that's impossible. This roll was sealed. It could've been inside that camera for decades."
I turned the photo over.
Written in blue ink were the words:
> "You'll know when to come back."
---
The room seemed to tilt for a second.
I could feel the blood rushing in my ears, the whisper of something unspoken moving between us.
Mira looked at me carefully. "Arjun… are you okay?"
I forced a smile. "Yeah. Just tired."
She placed her hand over mine. "You've been off lately. I can tell. If something's wrong, you can tell me."
How could I tell her that every picture she took might already be a memory from a future we hadn't lived yet?
So I said nothing.
When she went to make tea, I picked up the photo again.
Behind the faint outline of my own face, the café lights blurred into shapes—circles of gold and crimson.
And in one of the reflections, almost invisible, there was something else:
A laptop screen.
With a glowing inbox.
---
That night, I started recording myself again.
I spoke into the old tape recorder:
> "It's me—Arjun. If you ever find this… check the negatives. Something's in them.
Mira doesn't know. But she's connected to all of this somehow.
Maybe she's the reason the loop exists."
My voice trembled. "Or maybe… I am."
The tape clicked off.
Outside, thunder rumbled across the city.
I didn't realize it then, but I'd just started leaving messages for a future version of myself—just like the ones that had found me.