The black sedan remained parked across the road.
Its headlights cut through the rain like two pale eyes watching us from the darkness.
Neither Meera nor I moved.
For a few seconds, the city around us seemed to disappear.
Only the car remained.
Watching.
Waiting.
Then suddenly, another vehicle passed between us and the sedan.
And when it cleared—
The black car was gone.
My stomach tightened immediately.
"What the hell..."
I stepped closer to the road, looking in both directions.
Nothing.
No sign of it.
No taillights.
No engine sound.
Nothing.
Beside me, Meera wrapped her arms around herself.
"Let's go."
I looked at her.
She wasn't panicking.
That was what worried me.
She looked familiar with this feeling.
Like being watched had become part of her life.
"How long?" I asked quietly.
She frowned.
"How long what?"
"How long have you been living like this?"
For a moment, she didn't answer.
Then she laughed softly.
Not because anything was funny.
Because she was tired.
"Long enough."
The answer stayed with me as we walked toward the main road.
Twenty minutes later, we were sitting inside a small café near the river.
It was nearly midnight.
Only a few customers remained.
Soft music played in the background while rain tapped gently against the large glass windows.
For the first time all day, things felt normal.
Or at least close to normal.
Meera sat across from me, stirring her coffee absentmindedly.
Neither of us had touched our drinks yet.
I studied her quietly.
Not the memories.
Not the mystery.
Just her.
The real person sitting in front of me.
And suddenly I realized something embarrassing.
I knew almost nothing about her current life.
I knew who she used to be.
Not who she had become.
"What do you do now?" I asked.
Meera looked surprised.
"What?"
"Your job."
A small smile appeared on her face.
"That's your question?"
"It's a normal question."
"We've been chased by mysterious messages for three years and now you want my resume?"
I laughed despite myself.
The sound felt strange.
Like something I hadn't done properly in weeks.
"There it is," Meera said.
"What?"
"That laugh."
I frowned.
"What's wrong with it?"
"Nothing." She smiled into her coffee. "I just haven't heard it in a long time."
Something about the way she said it made my chest tighten.
Not painfully.
Just enough to remind me how much time had been stolen from both of us.
"I work as a graphic designer," she said.
That surprised me.
"Really?"
She nodded.
"Small publishing company."
"Books?"
"Mostly."
Another strange coincidence.
Or maybe not a coincidence at all.
For a moment, I found myself wondering how much of our lives had continued circling around each other without either of us realizing.
"What about friends?" I asked.
"Friends?"
"Yeah. Human relationships. Those things people normally have."
She rolled her eyes.
"I have friends."
"I don't believe you."
"You're incredibly annoying."
That response made me smile.
And for the first time since meeting her, she looked less like a tragic memory and more like a real person.
Someone who got irritated.
Someone who teased back.
Someone who existed outside my story.
Later that night, after making sure she got home safely, I finally returned to my apartment.
The silence inside felt heavier than usual.
I dropped my keys onto the counter and stared at the familiar room.
The books.
The couch.
The untouched coffee mug near the sink.
For years, I had convinced myself this loneliness was normal.
Now it felt unbearable.
Because I knew what had caused it.
Or at least part of it.
I sat at my desk and opened the voice recorder.
"Voice note. 12:47 AM."
My voice sounded tired.
"New memory. Black sedan. Someone watching us before the accident."
I paused.
Then added quietly:
"I don't think forgetting Meera was an accident."
After ending the recording, I opened an old drawer.
Inside were dozens of notebooks.
Half-finished journals.
Random notes.
Lists.
Thoughts.
Things I had written after the accident because I was terrified of forgetting important details.
One notebook fell open naturally.
And something slipped out.
A photograph.
My breathing stopped.
Slowly, I picked it up.
The picture showed three people.
Me.
Kabir.
And another man.
Older.
Late forties maybe.
Standing outside a hospital.
I frowned.
I didn't recognize him.
But someone had drawn a thick black X across his face with a marker.
A chill ran through me.
On the back of the photo, written in my own handwriting, were four words.
Don't trust Dr. Malhotra.
I stared at the sentence.
Again.
And again.
Dr. Malhotra.
The name meant nothing.
At least consciously.
But deep inside my mind—
Something reacted.
A feeling.
Fear.
Not memory.
Fear.
I immediately grabbed my phone and called Kabir.
He answered on the second ring.
"You know it's after midnight, right?"
"Who's Dr. Malhotra?"
Silence.
Complete silence.
The kind that tells you everything before a single word is spoken.
My heartbeat slowed.
"Kabir."
No answer.
"Kabir."
When he finally spoke, his voice sounded completely different.
No jokes.
No sarcasm.
No humor.
Just tension.
"Where did you hear that name?"
I looked down at the photograph again.
The black X covering the doctor's face suddenly felt much more disturbing than before.
"Kabir..."
My voice lowered.
"Who is he?"
Another long silence followed.
Then Kabir said something that made every hair on my arms stand up.
"Arjun..."
His voice was shaking.
"That doctor died two years ago."