It was the day the sky changed colors.
Not literally, no. But in my memory — both the old one and the one I was now rewriting — this was the day the world tilted. Where everything once normal began to bend, quietly, into chaos.
It started with a phone call.
I was home, helping mom chop vegetables for dinner. She was telling me about how coriander prices had gone up again and how she was going to try growing some in pots near the gate. I nodded, pretending I was hearing it for the first time, even though I remembered every detail — including the exact words she would say next:
"Your brother called this morning. He might come home earlier than expected."
Only this time… she didn't say it.
Instead, the phone rang.
And my heart dropped.
I froze, the knife mid-air.
"Can you check who that is?" she asked.
I wiped my hands, picked up the cordless phone from the shelf. The screen blinked.
DAD.
That wasn't supposed to happen.
"Hello?" I said, voice cautious.
"Where's your mother?" came his voice — rushed, tight.
"She's right here—"
"Tell her not to come outside. And don't let Karthik leave the house. There's—there's a situation."
"What? What situation?"
But he had already hung up.
I turned to mom. She had stopped chopping, eyes narrowed at my expression.
"What did he say?"
I hesitated. "Something about not going out. Some situation."
She frowned, dried her hands, and turned on the TV.
What we saw made the knife fall from my hand.
A textile factory in the southern part of the city had exploded. Gas leak. Fire. The news was still unfolding, but words like "evacuation," "toxic air," "emergency" were being thrown around. My brother's college was just four kilometers from the site.
"Karthik..." mom whispered, already reaching for her phone.
No signal.
And that was how it began.
The panic.
The helpless waiting.
The moment our family began to fracture.
In the old timeline, this was the day everything began to fall apart. Dad, feeling helpless at work, took the blame for a supply issue and got suspended. Karthik, unreachable for hours, had walked through toxic air and collapsed halfway home — a health scare that changed him. And I... I stayed still. I was just a silent observer, caged by fear, useless.
But not this time.
I grabbed my phone. Not to scroll. Not to wait.
I opened the map. Found my brother's college. Traced the nearby roads. The backup bus routes. I had walked some of those streets before. I could do it again.
I turned to mom. "I'm going to bring him."
She looked at me like I was mad. "No, you're not stepping out!"
But I was already tying my shoelaces.
"I know the safe way. I won't take chances."
"You're just a kid—"
"I'm not," I said, calmly. "Not really."
The sun outside was already hidden behind smoke. The light looked yellow — sickly, surreal. A sky preparing for something terrible.
But I had legs, lungs, and a second chance.
And this time, I wasn't going to freeze.
I ran. Into the haze. Into history.
Not to change the past — but to meet it head-on.