Kolkata, 2004.
It rained so hard the city slowed to a hush. Not from fear—but reverence. The Ganges swelled with forgotten stories. Streetlamps flickered like memories in the mist. And in a modest hospital off College Street, a child was born.
His name was Max D Costa. His grandmother whispered, "This one carries stories in his blood."
From the beginning, he wasn't like other children. While others ran barefoot in the gullies, Max sat cross-legged before a dusty CRT screen, sketching monsters, gods, and cities that floated in the sky. He wasn't a prodigy. Just relentless. Obsessed.
He dreamed of worlds where memory was currency. Where stories could be passed down like heirlooms. Where even the forgotten had a place.
He would build such a world. Not for glory. But so he wouldn't be forgotten.
"I wasn't a god. Or a genius. I was just someone who chose to remember... and refused to stop dreaming."