Chapter 1
A Normal Day That Feels Wrong
The day started like any other.
That was the problem.
The city moved the way it always did—traffic honking without rhythm, people walking too fast, everyone pretending they were exactly where they were supposed to be. Nothing looked broken. Nothing looked unusual. And yet, something felt… off.
Arjun noticed it while brushing his teeth.
For a second—just one—his reflection didn't copy him.
He froze, toothbrush still in his mouth, foam dripping onto the sink. The mirror showed his face, his messy hair, his tired eyes—but the timing was wrong. His reflection blinked a heartbeat later than he did.
Then it matched him again.
Arjun stared at himself for a long moment before laughing under his breath.
"Sleep deprivation," he muttered.
He was nineteen. College student. Ordinary in every sense that mattered. No tragic past, no dramatic present. He lived between deadlines, cheap coffee, and the constant pressure of becoming someone useful. Hallucinations didn't fit into that life.
Still, the feeling followed him.
On the bus, the city outside the window felt flatter, like a background painted too carefully. A street he was sure existed didn't pass by. A billboard appeared twice. When the bus crossed a bridge, Arjun felt light—like the road beneath them had briefly vanished.
He told himself not to overthink it.
Across the city, Meera stopped walking.
She stood at the edge of a narrow lane she'd never taken before, even though it connected two roads she used daily. The air inside the lane looked darker, heavier, as if the sunlight refused to enter properly.
She checked her phone. Maps showed the lane clearly.
But something about it made her chest tighten.
Meera was eighteen. Quiet. Observant. The kind of person who noticed small things and kept them to herself. She trusted patterns. And this lane didn't belong to any pattern she knew.
A sound came from inside—soft, like fabric dragging across concrete.
She took one step back.
The sound stopped.
For a moment, she thought she saw movement near the end of the lane. Not a person. Not exactly. More like a shadow remembering how to be tall.
Her phone buzzed. A message from a friend complaining about class.
When Meera looked up again, the lane was normal. Empty. Sunlit. Harmless.
She laughed once, sharply, embarrassed at herself, and walked away.
She didn't notice the faint mark on her wrist—thin and dark, like a bruise shaped into a symbol she didn't recognize.
That night, Arjun dreamed of falling.
Not the dramatic kind. No screaming. No wind rushing past his ears. Just the quiet certainty that there was no ground waiting for him.
He woke up at 3:17 a.m., heart racing, the taste of iron in his mouth.
His room was dark. Silent.
Then he heard it.
Breathing.
Not his own.
It came from behind the door. Slow. Patient. As if whatever was there knew he was awake now.
Arjun didn't move. Didn't blink. Didn't reach for his phone.
After a long minute, the breathing stopped.
In another part of the city, Meera sat up in bed at the exact same moment, her fingers curled tightly into her blanket. She didn't know why she was scared. She only knew she was.
Because in her dream, someone had been calling her name.
Not loudly.
Not urgently.
Like they'd been waiting for her to remember.
Neither of them knew it yet, but the line between worlds had already thinned.
And it had noticed them both.