The Mansion of Lost Echoes

Date: 11th December 1976 — Late Night:

The night wrapped the city like a shroud.

Mist curling in the gutters, the wind howling between broken buildings.

Somewhere in the maze of Mumbai’s forgotten streets, Detective Araav stumbled.

Blind drunk.

Grieving.

Hollow.

He barely remembered how he ended up here — facing a man in a black coat, face hidden under a wide hat.

The man said nothing — simply handing Araav a crumpled, stained card.

An address.

Before Araav could ask anything, the man vanished — like a shadow swallowed by the night.

Araav, dazed and desperate, found himself pushing through rusted gates toward a crumbling mansion.

It stood there — proud and rotting — as if waiting for him.

The heavy doors creaked open on their own.

Inside, darkness swallowed him.

The house whispered around him.

Old, broken walls seemed to sigh as he passed.

He roamed through ruined halls, splintered floors, windows cracked like fractured bones.

And then he found it — a photograph half-buried under dust.

The image blurred with age.

Meera.

Smiling, bright — untouched by the rot around her.

Beside her — another figure.

A man, but his face was burnt beyond recognition.

Araav’s drunk mind reeled.

Meera...

The Phantom case...

The girl from the missing files.

But why was her photo here?

And who was this man beside her?

The mansion around him groaned, wood cracking under invisible weight.

Doors opened by themselves.

Shadows slid just beyond sight.

Araav felt it —

Another presence.

Someone — or something — moved through the house with him.

But when he turned, he found nothing but the empty corridors breathing.

He wasn't alone.

---

Elsewhere in the same mansion — but on a different line of time —

Andarin stalked the halls.

Silent.

Predatory.

The house welcomed him, whispered to him.

He moved through the same rooms as Araav — brushed against the same broken frames, opened the same decaying doors.

Yet they never saw each other.

Two men.

One place.

Split across the blade of time.

Sometimes Araav would spin, heart hammering, feeling breath on his neck —

But there would be nothing.

Only the echo of steps from a time he couldn't touch.

---

The next morning

The light bleeding through the shattered windows was cold and grey.

Araav woke up on the hard floor, a painful throb in his head.

For a moment he didn't remember where he was.

He sat up slowly, the dust clinging to his coat.

The massive wooden door of the mansion stood wide open.

Cold wind whispered through it.

Confused, dizzy, Araav pulled himself up.

In his hand — still clutched tight — was the photograph of Meera.

Something was wrong.

Terribly wrong.

The world outside looked frozen, like an old photograph left too long in the sun.

Araav stumbled toward the exit, the mansion behind him groaning — almost calling him back.

---

Meanwhile, elsewhere in the same mansion...

Meera woke in her room.

Soft light poured through her tall windows, painting the walls golden.

She blinked up to find Andarin standing by the door, dressed sharply, ready to leave.

“Get dressed,” he said, voice smooth.

“You wanted a tour, didn’t you?”

Meera’s heart raced — half in fear, half in... something else.

For days, she had been a prisoner here, trapped inside these ancient walls.

Today, she was allowed out.

Today, she could taste freedom — even if it was an illusion.

Hurriedly, she slipped into a simple dress Andarin had left for her — soft fabric, fitting her body almost too perfectly.

When she stepped out into the hall, she saw it clearer:

The mansion was old — much older than she remembered.

The floors creaked under their feet.

Portraits hung crookedly on the peeling walls.

She paused — heart skipping — when she noticed a familiar crack in the marble staircase.

Hadn’t she seen that same crack yesterday?

Or was it... decades ago?

Shaking off the unease, she followed Andarin.

---

They stepped out through the massive front doors.

The city beyond wasn't the one Meera remembered.

The cars were old, rounded things coughing thick black smoke.

The streets were lined with small shops selling cloth, fruit, radios.

The people wore bell-bottoms and thick glasses —

Newspapers sold on the corners screamed about political emergencies and curfews.

1976.

It wasn’t just a different place — it was a different time.

But Meera didn’t realize it fully — not yet.

She clung to Andarin’s arm as they wandered through the bustling streets.

Shopping.

Laughing.

For the first time, she felt... almost normal.

Andarin bought her sweet jalebis from a street vendor, gold bangles from a tiny shop tucked between two collapsing buildings.

His hand lingered at the small of her back.

Guiding her.

Claiming her.

She should have been afraid.

But the sun was warm.

The food was sweet.

The air smelled like old Mumbai — dusty, spicy, alive.

And Meera let herself believe —

Just for a little while —

That maybe this nightmare could be beautiful.

---

But if she had looked closely...

If she had turned just a little faster...

She might have seen it:

A shadow, standing at the window of the mansion behind them.

Watching.

Waiting.

The timelines bleeding together.

The past reaching for the present.

And the Endless Chase only just beginning.

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