(19:00 Kiran Inc – Miera's office)
The office lights were beginning to hum in the sudden silence of the 19:00 exodus. Meira didn't just finish her work; she escaped it.
With a frantic sweep of her hand, she guided her laptop into the desk drawer, the metal tracks yielding with a sharp clack that echoed in the emptying room. She didn't bother organizing the stray pens or the half-empty coffee mug.
The blue light reflected in her wide eyes as the "Upcoming Departures" list flickered to life. She had exactly twenty minutes to reach the platform, or she'd be spent, stranded for another hour under the fluorescent glare of the station lobby. She snatched her coat, barely catching a sleeve as she swung it over her shoulder, and bolted for the stairs.
…
(19:15 Platform No 3)
The platform was a chaotic symphony of screeching brakes and rushing wind as the train finally pulled in, its headlights cutting through the evening gloom. Meira stood at the yellow line, chest heaving, a small victory sparked by the sight of the doors slowing to a halt.
Then, her pocket vibrated.
She pulled out her phone, the name on the screen making her eyebrows knit together in confusion. "Tina?" she muttered, the sound swallowed by the hiss of the pneumatic brakes.
It wasn't that a call from Tina was unheard of—they were close enough—but they shared a silent, sacred pact regarding the commute. These were the "dark hours," a frantic period of tunnel vision where the only goal was to reach their respective front doors as fast as humanly possible. To break that radio silence now meant something was either very wrong or too urgent to wait for the sanctuary of home.
"Meira, check your phone. It's him—DS. DS is dead."
Tina's voice came through the receiver in a jagged rush, the words colliding with one another. The world around Meira seemed to tilt. The roar of the arriving train muffled into a dull, underwater throb as the air left her lungs in a sharp, silent gasp.
Her fingers, suddenly numb and clumsy, fumbled to bring up her notifications. She stood frozen on the platform, a stationary ghost amidst the blur of boarding passengers.
There it was. The headline of a localized news alert and a flurry of panicked group messages.
It was DS.
The details were sparse but brutal: a collision on the way to the office at 19:00. The very moment she had been packing her bag, a life had been extinguished just blocks away. The heavy scent of ozone and cold steel from the tracks suddenly felt nauseating.
The train hissed and departed, a blur of light and steel that Meira didn't even notice. Her legs had turned to water, forcing her to collapse onto a cold metal bench on the platform. The world rushed past her, but she remained anchored in the devastating gravity of the news.
It had been years since a shock had hit her with such physical force. DS wasn't just a name in her contacts; he was a silent guardian woven into the fabric of her life. Devkar Uncle – whether he knew it or not, he had been her lighthouse, appearing at her lowest ebbs to rescue her from circumstances she thought would drown her.
Her mind drifted back, unbidden, to the day it all began: a crowded Parent-Teacher Meeting at her old school. She could still see Kiran's face, glowing with a frantic, beautiful pride.
"Meira, come on! You have to meet him!" Kiran had pulled her through the hallways, desperate for her best friend to finally witness the legend. "You have to meet my hero."
When they finally found him, Meira hadn't met a stern authority figure or a distant titan. She had met DS—a man whose laughter seemed to fill the room, a happy, fun-loving father who looked at his daughter like she was the centre of the universe.
For months, Kiran had talked about him nonstop, spinning stories of his kindness and bravery until he felt more like a myth than a man. Meira had never grown tired of listening; she had craved those stories, finding comfort in the idea that a hero like that actually existed. Now, looking at the dark screen of her phone, the myth had been broken by the most mundane of tragedies: a clock striking 19:00 and a road that didn't lead home.
For years, the three of them had existed in a rare, unbreakable orbit. It was a bond that defied simple labels—a seamless blend of fatherly protection, sisterly devotion, and the kind of easy friendship that usually takes a lifetime to build.
To Kiran, he was the hero of every story; to Meira, he became the father figure she hadn't known she was searching for. Whether they were crowded around a dinner table sharing secrets or navigating the complexities of their burgeoning adult lives, DS had been the steady heartbeat of their trio. He didn't just provide advice; he provided a sense of safety that made the world feel smaller and kinder.
The silence on the platform now felt deafening, a jagged hole where that shared history used to be. Kiran's Hero was gone, and for the first time in years, the "other daughter" he left behind was truly alone in the dark.
The phone vibrated again, the sudden tremor nearly jolting it from her numb fingers. A string of unfamiliar digits blinked on the screen.
Meira pressed it to her ear, her voice trapped in her throat. Before she could offer a greeting, a cold, clipped voice cut through the static of the station.
"You are requested to be at Roopa Mansion within the hour," the stranger said.
The name hit her like a physical blow. Roopa Mansion wasn't just an address; it was the sanctuary of Kiran's laughter. It was Kiran's & DS's home.
"Who is this?" Meira finally managed to whisper, but the caller didn't offer a name.
"It is an official matter," the person continued, their tone devoid of the grief that was currently suffocating Meira. "Please. One hour."
The line went dead, leaving Meira with the hollow dial tone and a rising sense of dread. "Official work" was a phrase that didn't belong within the warm, welcoming walls of Roopa Mansion. It sounded like lawyers, like police, like a world that was already moving on from the man who had been her hero.
She looked at the tracks, then toward the exit. The train she had fought so hard to catch no longer mattered.