Chapter 2: Carriage of Echoes
The door closed behind him with a hush, like the exhale of a memory trying not to be remembered.
This carriage was quieter—no ticking, no stars. Only whispers.
Thousands of them.
They slipped between shadows and light, curling in the corners, clinging to Shyam's thoughts like ivy. He walked slowly, hand still clutched around the pocketwatch. The gold thread from his finger glowed faintly, stretched taut like a map made of longing.
The train wasn't just moving through time. It was moving through him.
A mirror to his left reflected not his face—but dozens. Each Shyam in a different world. Some smiling. Some tired. Some broken.
One version had aged, wrinkles carved by regret, staring into a journal.
Another ran through a sunlit street, laughter bursting from his chest.
But none of them had Raitha beside them.
He walked faster.
The whispers grew louder.
> "She waited at Platform 13. You never came."
"You chose silence when she needed a goodbye."
"You remembered her too late."
Shyam shut his eyes. "No," he whispered. "Not this time."
The gold thread tugged—guiding him.
And then he saw it.
A small door. Wooden. Faintly glowing.
He opened it.
---
Inside was a room made entirely of glass. Each wall showed a different moment.
Raitha, sitting by a train window, headphones on, tears drying on her cheeks.
Raitha, standing beneath a sakura tree, waiting as petals fell around her—alone.
Raitha, asleep on a bench, clutching a paper with his name written across it a hundred times.
Raitha, standing in a white dress, facing an altar… but the groom was missing.
Every version of her—waiting. Wishing.
Shyam stepped into the center. A platform of moonlight. A circular table appeared, and atop it—a single object: a silver locket.
He opened it. Inside, a note:
"If love is the train, then memory is the track. But what if I am the station? Will you ever arrive?"
"Raitha…" he breathed. His voice cracked.
Behind him, a soft step.
He turned.
It was her.
But not the same as before.
This Raitha looked… transparent. Ethereal. Her edges shimmered like unfinished dreams.
"You found me," she said.
Shyam stepped closer, afraid she might vanish.
"I've looked through centuries," he said. "Through stars, through selves. I don't even know which 'me' I am anymore."
"You're the one who loved me enough to get here," she replied. "That's enough."
He tried to reach for her.
His hand passed through.
She smiled sadly. "I'm only an echo, Shyam. A memory you held too tightly."
Tears welled in his eyes.
"But I remember your warmth," he said. "The way you tucked your hair behind your ear when you were shy. The way you hated parting trains."
She laughed softly. "And you always missed your own because you stayed behind just to wave."
"Because I hoped you'd come back."
She paused. Then gently placed her palm where his heart beat.
"You've crossed dimensions for me," she whispered. "But there's one more to go."
"Which one?"
"The true self."
"The place where time and love aren't separate. Where you aren't running after me… because I never left."
The glass walls shimmered. Each image of Raitha dissolved into golden dust.
"You mean… you're still alive?" he asked, breath caught between hope and heartbreak.
She tilted her head. "In one world. One version. Maybe not here. Maybe not now."
She pointed to the gold thread tied around his finger.
"That leads not to a person. But a promise."
"Then where do I go?"
"To the center."
A final door opened. Shaped like an hourglass, filled with stars.
He turned to her.
"Will I see you again?"
Her smile reached through lifetimes.
"You already are."
---
The train lurched.
And everything turned dark.
---
Shyam awoke not on a bench, but floating—weightless.
He was no longer on the train.
He stood in a circular space. Endless, boundless. A mirror of the cosmos.
And across from him—another Shyam.
This one wore no scars. No confusion. Just quiet understanding.
The True Self.
"You've walked far," the other Shyam said.
"I want to stop walking," he said. "I want to arrive."
"Then listen."
The True Self raised a hand.
And everything fell quiet.
A whistle blew.
One last train approached—a small one, humble, golden, flickering in and out of sight.
This wasn't a train of time.
It was a train of return.
"Board it," his True Self said. "And open your eyes."
Shyam did.
---
To be concluded in Chapter 2.5: "Platform 0"