I always thought the past was like an old photograph—faded around the edges, but still there if you looked close enough. Except mine wasn’t. No matter how hard I tried to focus, the images wouldn’t come into view.

My childhood was a blur—a soft, hollow ache where memories should have lived. And today, of all days, it felt heavier. Like some unspoken truth knocking at my ribcage. It was my birthday. And my first day of college. Around me, laughter, last selfies, bittersweet goodbyes.

The hum of excitement. But me? I found myself here. At the temple. Barefoot on the cool stone floor, incense curling through the air, marigold scent thick in my lungs. Evening light poured through intricately carved pillars. People whispered prayers, eyes shut, lips moving.

I couldn’t hear any of it. 7 Only the echo in my chest. The ache. The absence. My fingers reached instinctively for my wrist. It was bare. The bracelet. My mother’s bracelet. The only piece of her I had left. Gone. Panic clawed up my throat. I dropped to the floor, scanning every inch of marble. Retraced my steps through the courtyard, stopping everyone—priests, flower vendors, even the children darting past—to ask.

No one had seen it. It was gone. Just like everything else I had no memory of. I stumbled outside. The sun dipped lower, casting gold over the world like it was trying to paint over the cracks in me. My fingers trembled. Maybe I was tired. Maybe I was unraveling. Maybe I was cursed to lose everything I tried to hold close. No. I couldn’t afford to believe that. 8 I dusted off my kurta and moved toward the street stalls, scanning faces, searching eyes.

Someone might have picked it up. Or stolen it. Hope is foolish, but sometimes, it’s all you have. And then—there. Tucked inside a beggar’s donation plate. My bracelet. Same lotus charm. Same faded thread. My heart stilled. Had someone really stolen it? Or had it simply… ended up here?

“Yeh kahan se mila aapko?” I asked the frail woman behind the plate. (Where did you find this?) She only smiled, toothless, lifting a wrinkled hand to her lips in silence. I picked up the bracelet gently, clutching it to my chest.

“Shukriya,” I whispered. (Thank you.) 9 And then— “Madam piche ho jaiye, bade sahab aa rahe hain!” (Madam, step back, the big boss is arriving!) A hand gripped my arm, pulling me aside. An older man stood beside me, a red tikka bright against his forehead.

“K-kaun?” I asked, startled. (W-who?) “Vanraj Singhania,” he said, almost reverently. “Puri duniya jaanti hai unko.” (Vanraj Singhania. The whole world knows him.) The air shifted. Three black SUVs rolled up in front of the temple, their arrival stirring a storm.

People surged forward like a wave, whispering, pointing, scrambling for a glimpse. 10 Security formed a wall, shoving people back. I was caught in the push, breath knocked out of me. Chaos. I tried to squeeze out of the mob. But then— I crashed into someone. Hard. I staggered back, startled, looking up—straight into the eyes of a man at least a foot taller than me.

He didn’t belong here. Sharp suit. Stiffer posture. A storm in his eyes. For a second, neither of us moved. His eyes—dark, unreadable, but so familiar—held me there, like the seconds had paused for us. There was a weight in his gaze that pressed down on my chest, something ancient and aching and inexplicable.

He didn’t blink. Didn’t speak. Just looked. The air shifted around us. And inside me. 11 “Maaf kijiye,” I murmured, stepping back. (I’m sorry.) He didn’t respond.

His jaw merely tensed, brows pulling together. And then, as if the spell had broken, he turned and walked away. Disappearing into the temple crowd. I stood there, breathless. Unsettled. I had no idea who he was. And yet—some part of me, some part untouched by memory or logic—felt like it knew him. Felt like he had known me.