The wind outside howled like a pack of wolves, carrying with it dry leaves and bits of paper that skittered across the asphalt road. Inside his room, Aarav lay sprawled on his bed, a tattered notebook on his chest and a pencil balanced behind his ear. His fingers absentmindedly traced a circle on the worn fabric of his blanket, and his eyes were fixed on the ceiling. It was a regular Tuesday—or at least, it was supposed to be.
His mother's voice called out from downstairs. "Aarav! Clean that junk from the attic! If I trip over one more box, I'm selling your comic collection!"
"Coming!" he yelled back, sighing as he swung his legs off the bed.
The attic had always been a strange place. Full of half-forgotten memories, cobwebs, and the scent of old wood and rust, it held the kind of mystery that only curious teenagers found thrilling—or terrifying. Today, it felt different.
He climbed the narrow steps slowly, each creak of the old wood sounding louder than usual. As he opened the trapdoor and poked his head in, a gust of stale air greeted him, and the dust danced in the slanting sunlight.
Boxes. So many boxes.
He pulled out one labeled "Dad's Stuff," written in faded black marker. Aarav had never met his father. He'd died in an accident when Aarav was barely a year old—or so he'd been told. Something about that box drew him in.
He opened it carefully.
Inside were notebooks, a few odd mechanical parts, a rusted watch, and a pile of envelopes. Most were yellowed with age. One in particular stood out—it was burnt at the edges, barely intact, but his name was clearly written across it in bold, rushed handwriting.
Aarav.
He froze.
This wasn't just eerie—it was downright impossible. The date on the letter's corner said 14 March, 2091.
He tore it open with trembling fingers.
Aarav, if you're reading this, then the machine worked. Don't trust anyone—not even her. Follow the time markers. Your life, and everyone else's, depends on it.
Your future self
The letter slipped from his hand, landing softly on the attic floor. The room seemed colder now.
By nightfall, Aarav couldn't sleep. The letter replayed in his mind like a broken record. He turned on his desk lamp, examined the paper again, and noticed faint numbers on the back.
12.05.48.27.88
A set of coordinates?
He grabbed his laptop and began typing.
Latitude 12.05, Longitude 48.27… That placed the location somewhere in an old part of town. The last part—88—maybe a street number?
He didn't know what compelled him, but he threw on a hoodie, stuffed the letter into his backpack, and snuck out the window.
It was past midnight when Aarav reached the location.
An old clock shop stood at the corner of a dark, empty street—"Marlin's Timekeepers". The windows were boarded up, but the faint ticking of clocks echoed from inside.
The front door was locked, but a side window hung open. Aarav climbed through, landing in a heap of dust and gears.
The interior was surreal—hundreds of clocks, all ticking in chaotic synchrony. On the back wall, a large grandfather clock stood with its hands spinning rapidly, defying time itself.
Suddenly, the ticking stopped.
Every clock froze at 3:33.
The room went dead silent.
A glowing hum emerged from the basement door, drawing him in like a moth to flame.
He descended the steps slowly.
The basement was unlike anything he'd ever seen—metal walls lined with glowing blue circuits, a central platform with a chair surrounded by wires, and in the middle, what looked like a control panel with a lever.
His heart raced.
The machine.
He stepped onto the platform. The lever had one word etched beneath it: Activate.
He reached out, hesitated, then pulled it down.
The machine roared to life. Lights blinked, and a whirlwind of energy surged around him.
Then, everything went white.
Aarav gasped.
He was no longer in the basement. The sky above was bright, but it wasn't the sky he knew. Buildings around him looked half-built, like the city was in transition. Flying vehicles zipped past.
People moved in strange clothes. A massive digital billboard read: WELCOME TO KURUKSHETRA - YEAR 2079.
He had time-traveled.
Before he could process it, a hand grabbed his shoulder.
A man in a brown coat, face shadowed by a hood, whispered, "You shouldn't be here yet. They're already looking for you."
"Who are you?" Aarav asked.
The man pulled back his hood.
It was him.
An older version—late twenties, a scar on the chin, eyes hardened by years of pain.
"We don't have time. Come with me if you want answers."
Aarav followed.
Behind them, two men in black suits emerged from the crowd, each wearing dark glasses and speaking into earpieces.
"Target confirmed. Engage."
Gunshots rang out.
The chase had begun.