The apartment was smaller than his memory had allowed it to be.
One bedroom. One hall. One kitchen.
A one BHK, tucked inside an aging building in a quiet Bangalore lane, where scooters outnumbered cars and neighbors knew the sound of each other's mornings. The walls were painted a tired cream, chipped near the corners. The sofa in the hall sagged slightly in the middle. A ceiling fan hummed unevenly, fighting the heat with stubborn persistence.
Rudra stood barefoot on the cool floor, absorbing it all.
This was home.
Not the sprawling hotel suites he would one day own again. Not the penthouse he had died in transit from. This—this modest, imperfect space—was where everything had once begun.
And where everything had ended.
His parents moved around the apartment with the ease of routine. His mother wiped the counter clean, adjusting the lid on the pressure cooker before washing her hands and touching the small framed deity in silent prayer. His father adjusted his coat, briefcase resting by the door, eyes scanning the newspaper one last time.
Ordinary.
Painfully ordinary.
Rudra sat at the dining table, staring at his plate without tasting the food.
Because he knew.
He knew things a twelve-year-old boy was never meant to know.
His father would die years later—on a television screen, not in this room.
A lawyer caught in the wrong place, at the wrong time.
The Taj attack. Smoke. Chaos. A name scrolling silently at the bottom of the news.
Gone before he could say goodbye properly.
His mother would survive him for a while. Longer than she should have.
Her hands would keep cooking even when her heart grew tired.
Until one winter, her breath would fail her in a sterile hospital room.
GRIFF.
The word surfaced in his mind like an unfinished sentence. Complications. Sudden. Unfair.
He clenched his fingers under the table.
The chair scraped softly as his father stood. "I'll be late today," he said. "Court hearing."
His mother nodded. "I'll keep dinner warm."
Such simple promises.
Rudra's vision blurred.
He dropped his gaze quickly, pretending to rub his eyes. A few tears escaped anyway, hot and unwelcome, splashing onto his knuckles.
He hadn't cried at their funerals in his first life. Not properly. There had been paperwork to handle. Responsibilities to shoulder. Strength to perform.
Now—
now his chest ached with the unbearable weight of knowing the ending.
His mother noticed.
She walked over, her bangles chiming softly, and placed a hand on his head. "What is it? Fever?"
He shook his head, biting his lip.
She didn't press. She never did. Instead, she smoothed his hair, her touch warm and grounding. The smell of spices clung to her sari—turmeric, cumin, home.
"Eat properly," she said gently. "You're growing."
Rudra nodded again, afraid his voice would betray him.
His father paused near the door, watching them. For a brief moment, his stern expression softened. He reached out, squeezing Rudra's shoulder once—firm, reassuring.
"Study well," he said. "Play later."
The door closed behind him.
The sound echoed longer than it should have.
Rudra stared at that door until his eyes burned.
I remember the day this door won't open again, he thought.
The realization didn't paralyze him.
It steadied him.
He wiped his face, breathing slowly, counting the seconds like he used to count deliveries in cricket nets.
This time, he would not be absent.
This time, he would not let routine turn into regret.
A faint ripple crossed his vision.
Not emotion.
Information.
Age: 12 YEARS OLD (2001)
Residence: One BHK Apartment
Environment Stability: Moderate
Family Presence: Intact
The system did not comment.
It only recorded.
Rudra looked around the hall once more—the worn sofa, the cricket bat by the wall, the sunlight filtering through iron bars on the window.
He pressed his palm flat against the table.
This was not a second chance to win.
It was a second chance to stay.
Outside, the sounds of Bangalore drifted in—vendors calling, buses braking, life moving forward without waiting for anyone.
Rudra stood up.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Age: 12 years old.
And for the first time in both his lives,
he was exactly where he needed to be.