The day began with a betrayal by her alarm clock. Meira woke to the mocking chirp of birds instead of the sharp buzz she expected.
"Late again! No, no, no—I cannot start my day with a sprint!" she cried out to her empty room. "This alarm needs a jolt of lightning if it ever hopes to wake me."
Her morning was a blur of high-speed efficiency. She set the coffee machine to hiss while she scrambled eggs, the kitchen smelling of burnt toast and her favorite lilac soap as she rushed through a bath. By the time she checked her phone, it was 8:50 AM. She didn't need a map; she had the Mumbai local train schedule etched into her brain. If she reached the platform by 9:05, she might just save her reputation.
The commute was the usual battle of elbows and iron will, but Meira moved with a singular focus. She didn't just travel; she navigated. From the train carriage to the sharing auto, every second was a calculation.
"Rozie Tower, Gate 1," she instructed the driver, squeezing into the back seat. She was almost there. She was going to make it.
But at the main gate, the world came to a screeching halt.
"Ma'am, your ID?" the guard asked firmly.
Meira's hand dove into her bag. Her fingers brushed against pens, receipts, and her phone—but the plastic rectangle of her employee ID was gone. Her face paled. For a girl who glorified punctuality like a religion, showing up late was bad; showing up as a nameless trespasser was a catastrophe.
"I can't let you in without it," the guard said, though his smile was sympathetic. "Have your employer send an approval mail."
Meira's heart sank. She hesitated, her pride warring with necessity. To get inside, she would have to bother DS's secretary—or worse, DS himself.
By 10:20 AM, Meira was finally at her desk at Kiran Inc., but the air felt dismal. The morning snack at the canteen was over, and her perfect record was tarnished. She sat hunched over a notepad, meticulously drafting a formal apology to DS, thanking him for the entry mail he had sent from his phone.
"You are literally writing a script to say thank you?" Tina, her colleague, giggled from the next desk. "Just walk in there and say it. It's not that deep, Meira."
"You don't understand, Tina," Meira responded, her eyes darting to the note. "I've never made a mistake like this. What will DS think of my professionalism now?"
Taking a deep breath, Meira walked toward the corner office. Her eyes scanned the cold, brass nameplate: Devkar Salai, Founder & CEO.
She knocked, but the fortress remained silent.
Five minutes later, she was back at her desk, checking his schedule. He was out at a client meeting. She looked at the CC'd email he had sent the guard—a brief, functional command sent from his Android.
Work didn't just occupy Devkar Salai; it consumed him. To him, the office was a sanctuary where the air stayed still and the clocks never stopped for joy. Since the tragedy that took his daughter—Meira's best friend, Kiran—he had traded fatherhood for a desk. He used mountains of paperwork to build a wall between himself and the ghost of the girl they both loved.