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They stayed on the balcony until dawn, not speaking much, but holding on. When the first grey light bled over Jatinga Hill, the road was still blocked, the tower still dead. But Meera’s phone buzzed once.

But Meera was crying now. Silent tears. “Aren’t they? We’ve been sleepwalking toward every single one of these, Mihir. The late nights. The ‘I’m fine’ when you’re not. The way you stopped asking me about my dreams.”

Mihir grabbed her wrist. “Ignore it. It’s a trick of the altitude, the gas from the marshes—”

Meera pulled back just enough to look at him. “We have to go back different.”

He opened his mouth to argue, but the words died. Because the lights were multiplying, surrounding their balcony like a jury of forgotten futures. Each one showed a different path—a different version of Meera and Mihir. In one, they were screaming in a kitchen, dishes shattering. In another, they were strangers passing on a busy street, eyes empty. In the most terrible one, they were polite. Civil. Dead inside.