Chapter 1: The Station Between Seconds
Time didn't stop.
It simply sighed.
And in that sigh, between the ticking of one second and the next, Shyam awoke.
He sat on a wooden bench beneath a sky full of stars, yet no sky at all. The ceiling was a canvas of constellations, but the floor beneath his feet was stone—wet with dew, cold with silence. A train station stretched out before him, silent and endless, platforms suspended midair like floating thoughts.
There were clocks, hundreds of them.
None of them ticked.
He blinked.
Where was he?
More importantly: Who was Raitha?
The name sat warm on his tongue. He didn't remember speaking it, but it echoed in his throat like a lullaby he'd once been sung under a monsoon sky. Her face was smoke—hints of laughter, hair dancing like wind through leaves, eyes like dusk. But the details ran away the more he chased them.
And then, the sound.
Chug. Chug. Chug.
A train, slow and heavy, rolled into the station—not on tracks but through light. It breathed like a living thing, steam coiling like dreams into the star-drenched ceiling.
A man stepped out. He was tall, thin, with a coat the color of forgotten stories and a hat that tilted like it was listening to music no one else could hear.
"You missed your stop," the man said, in a voice like pages turning.
"Or perhaps, your life missed you."
Shyam stared. "Where… is this?"
"This," said the man, sweeping his arm with a flourish, "is the Station Between Seconds. A quiet place where time folds its arms and watches."
"I… don't understand."
"Good," said the man, smiling. "Understanding is the first thing people lose here. That means you haven't lost it yet."
He tipped his hat. "Call me Mr. Aran. I guide passengers like yourself."
"I wasn't traveling," Shyam said slowly. "At least, I don't think I was."
Mr. Aran leaned close. "Weren't you? All men in love are travelers. Some across oceans. Others across time."
That name again.
"Raitha…"
Mr. Aran's eyes sparkled. "Ah. So you do remember her. Or at least, a version of her."
"A version?"
"Time is a train, Shyam. But each carriage holds a different reality. Some hold memories. Some, regrets. Others still—possibilities. You may have loved Raitha in one of them. Or perhaps all."
"I need to find her."
"Good," said Mr. Aran. "That's why the train came."
Behind them, the train doors hissed open. Shyam glanced inside. The corridor was dim, lined with flickering lights and fading echoes. A song hummed from within—soft, familiar, unfinished.
"What happens if I board it?" Shyam asked.
"You move," Mr. Aran said. "Not forward. Not back. Inward."
He offered a small pocketwatch. The hands spun in opposite directions.
"It'll keep you from losing yourself entirely."
Shyam took it. The metal was warm—almost pulsing, like a heartbeat.
"And what if I get lost anyway?"
Mr. Aran's expression turned gentle. "Then we wait. And she finds you."
The whistle blew.
Shyam stepped onto the train.
---
The first carriage was a forest. No roof, just trees reaching up to the memory of sky. Fireflies flickered like lost thoughts. And ahead of him, a younger version of himself—a boy, maybe ten—was chasing a paper plane.
Shyam followed. The boy didn't look back, but spoke aloud:
"Why did you stop dreaming?"
Shyam froze.
The boy kept walking, barefoot over grass that glowed faintly beneath him.
"Dreams don't grow up," he said. "They wait."
"Wait for what?"
"For someone who remembers."
The paper plane landed in a small clearing. On it, scribbled in messy handwriting:
"I will meet you where time forgets to move."
—Raitha
Shyam touched the note. It dissolved into stardust.
---
He moved to the next carriage.
A room filled with clocks again—but this time, they were ticking. Loudly. Too loudly.
He covered his ears.
In the center of the room, stood her.
Raitha. Or someone who felt like her. She was turned away, looking into a mirror that showed not her reflection, but galaxies swirling like dreams being stirred.
"Raitha?"
She didn't turn. "Which version are you?" she asked softly.
"What do you mean?"
"There's always a version of you that gives up before the last stop. And one who waits too long."
"I'm the one still looking," he whispered.
She turned.
Eyes like falling stars.
"Then I hope your train doesn't derail," she said. "This place… it remembers those who forget."
She reached out, her fingers barely brushing his—
—and the lights shattered.
Darkness. Screeching metal. A rush of cold wind.
---
When Shyam opened his eyes, he was lying back on the station bench.
Mr. Aran stood nearby, sipping tea from a clock-shaped cup.
"You fainted," he said simply. "Happens to most during the second carriage."
Shyam sat up. "She was there. I saw her."
"Yes," said Mr. Aran. "But did you reach her?"
Shyam looked at his hand. A single thread of gold was looped around his finger. A promise not yet spoken.
"What is this?"
"A tether," Mr. Aran said. "To the version of her that's still waiting. Follow it."
Shyam stood. The train waited. This time, the door glowed gently—welcoming, but uncertain.
"Will I ever find her?" he asked.
Mr. Aran smiled sadly.
"Depends," he said. "On whether you're running toward her, or away from everything else."
The whistle blew again.
And Shyam stepped aboard.
---
To Be Continued in Chapter 2: "Carriage of Echoes"