He opened his eyes.
White ceiling. Fluorescent lights. The smell of antiseptic and clean sheets.
A hospital room.
His body felt heavy, numb, like someone had drained all the blood out and poured in lead. His arms rested on top of the thin blanket. Tubes ran from the back of his hand to a bag hanging on a metal pole.
He turned his head slowly.
A woman slept beside his bed.
She sat on a plastic chair, leaned forward, her head resting on her folded arms. Her hands made a pillow for her face. Black hair spilled across the white sheets.
His mother.
Sleeping.
Waiting.
He stared at her. At the way her chest rose and fell. At the soft sound of her breathing. At the small mole beside her left eye.
"Maa..."
The word came out dry. Cracked. Barely a whisper.
But she heard.
Her head lifted. Her eyes opened. Red from crying. Puffy. Tired.
Their eyes met.
She froze for one heartbeat. Two.
Then her face broke open like sunrise.
"HONEY!"
she screamed toward the door, her voice raw with joy and tears. "VEDA IS AWAKE! HONEY, COME QUICK!"
Honey?
Veda blinked. Confusion crawled through the fog in his head.
Who is she calling honey?
The door burst open.
A man walked in.
He was skinny, too skinny, with thin arms and narrow shoulders. But there was something underneath. A quiet strength. The body of someone who had been fit once and still carried the ghost of it.
He wore a loose white office shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows. A black tie hung crooked around his neck, loosened like he had been tugging at it all day. His pants were dark gray, old-fashioned, the kind school teachers wore in the 90s. Brown leather shoes, scuffed at the toes.
His face was worried. Scared. Sweat on his forehead.
Thick glasses sat on his nose, round frames, the kind an old professor would wear. His face was clean-shaven, soft, with deep lines around his mouth and eyes.
He looked like Veda.
Not the young Veda. Not the killer Veda.
The forty-four-year-old Veda. The one who had stood on that rooftop in South Delhi. The same tired eyes. The same heavy brow. The same grooves running from the corners of his mouth.
But alive.
Breathing.
Walking.
The man rushed to the bed. Grabbed Veda's face in both hands. His hands were warm. Rough in some places, soft in others. The hands of someone who wrote more than he fought.
"Beta," he said, voice shaking. "How are you feeling now? I was so scared. We were both so scared."
Beta.
Veda's eyes opened wider.
Someone other than his mother had just called him beta.
The man pulled him into a hug. Tight. Desperate. His thin arms wrapped around Veda's shoulders like he was afraid Veda would disappear if he let go.
"I thought I lost you," the man whispered into Veda's hair. "When your mother called me from the hospital, I couldn't breathe. I couldn't." His voice broke. "I was so scared, beta."
Veda sat still in the hug.
Didn't return it.
Didn't pull away.
Just... existed.
The man pulled back. His eyes were wet behind those thick glasses. Tears rolled down his cheeks. He wiped them with the back of his hand, embarrassed.
"Who are you?" Veda asked.
The man's face went pale.
"What?"
"Who are you?" Veda repeated. His voice was flat. No emotion.
The man stared at him. His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
"I... I am your father."
His voice cracked on the word father.
Tears poured down his face. He didn't wipe them this time. He just cried. Openly. Like a child. Like a man who had been holding everything together and finally let it fall apart.
"What happened to you, Veda?" he sobbed. "What happened to my son?"
His mother grabbed the bed railing. Her knuckles went white.
"Did he lose his memory?" Her voice was high, panicked. Tears already forming again. "I told him, I told him every day, don't read your father's research papers! Those old souls, those angels, they're dangerous! I told him!"
She collapsed back into the chair, crying into her hands.
Veda looked at both of them.
His mother. Young. Healthy. Beautiful. Crying because her son didn't remember her.
And this man. This weak-looking man. Skinny. Crying like a girl. Blowing his nose into a handkerchief.
His father.
The man who had run away with another woman. The man who had left his mother alone with a newborn and never looked back. The man whose face Veda had never seen.
Here he was.
Crying.
Hugging him.
Calling him beta.
Veda felt nothing.
The door opened again.
A doctor walked in. Fat. Old. A thick white mustache covered his upper lip. He wore a white coat over a green kurta. His face was familiar, the same tired eyes, the same gray mustache as the doctor who had told him his baby was dead.
This one looked exactly like him.
But different.
Calmer.
A nurse followed behind him, young, holding a clipboard.
The father ran to the doctor. Grabbed his arm.
"Doctor sahab, he doesn't remember us! He doesn't remember anything! What happened to my son?"
The doctor raised a hand. "Calm down, Mr. Das. Let me examine him."
He walked to the bed. His movements were slow, deliberate. He pulled a small torch from his coat pocket.
"Open your eyes wide."
Veda obeyed.
The doctor shone the light into his left eye. Then his right. Then he said,
"Open your mouth."
Veda opened.
The doctor looked inside. Nodded to himself.
Then he took Veda's arm. Held it firmly. His fingers pressed against the inside of Veda's wrist, searching for the pulse.
But something else happened.
Veda felt it.
A warmth. A current. Something flowed from the doctor's fingers into his arm. It moved through his veins like liquid light, gentle, searching, curious.
The doctor's eyes went wide.
For a moment, just a moment, his gaze seemed to slip somewhere else. Somewhere white. Somewhere endless.
A white place.
Standing in water.
An ocean of light stretching in every direction, no horizon, no sky, just water and whiteness and the feeling of being watched by something vast.
The doctor's hand trembled.
What is this? he thought. Veda could almost hear it. Thirty years. Thirty years I have been doing this. I have examined kings and beggars. Warriors and fools. I have never, never, felt anything like this.
He tried to measure deeper. Pushed his energy further into Veda's arm.
The ocean responded.
It grew.
Wider. Deeper. Endless.
It keeps going, the doctor thought, sweat beading on his forehead. There is no bottom. No limit. How? How can a nineteen-year-old boy have this much soul energy?
He tried again.
The ocean swallowed his probe like a drop of rain falling into the sea.
I am not qualified, he admitted to himself. The thought burned with shame. After thirty years... I am not qualified to measure this child's limits.
He pulled his hand back.
Forced his face neutral.
The father grabbed his arm. "Doctor sahab? What happened? Is he okay? How is his soul energy?"
The doctor wiped his forehead with his sleeve. Took a breath.
Say something.
"He is fine," the doctor said. His voice was steady. Professional.
The mother let out a sob of relief.
"More than fine, actually." The doctor nodded, keeping his face calm. "His vitals are strong. No sign of corruption. The failed contact didn't damage his soul."
Don't mention the ocean. Don't mention what you couldn't measure.
He took another breath.
"I don't think anyone in this city is."
Silence filled the room.
The mother and father stared at the doctor. Then at Veda. Then back at the doctor.
"About the memory loss," the doctor continued. "It seems when he tried to connect with the Angel, the contact failed. His mind couldn't handle the pressure. That is a common side effect."
He adjusted his glasses.
"Good thing is, his soul did not get infected with corrupted energy. He will be fine in a few days. Let him rest at home. You can take him home today."
The mother burst into tears, happy tears this time. She rushed to the bed and threw her arms around Veda.
"Thank heaven! Thank heaven my child is okay!"
She hugged him tight. Her body shook with crying and laughing at the same time.
"Did you hear that, beta? You're coming home! We're taking you home!"
Veda sat in her arms.
Stiff.
Silent.
He looked at his mother. Then at the man standing by the door, his father, who was wiping his eyes with a handkerchief, shoulders still shaking.
He looked at both of them.
In this world, he had a mother. Young. Healthy. Beautiful worrying like mothers do.
In this world, he had a father. A man who called himself his father. A man who cried when he thought his son was hurt.
A man who didn't run away.
Veda felt nothing.
Time passed.
Veda stood by the window.
He was wearing simple clothes now, a loose white kurta and cotton pants, the kind of thing people wore at home. Someone had dressed him while he was unconscious. Probably his mother.
His hair was long. Dark. It fell across his forehead, almost covering his eyes. The wind from outside pushed it back, then let it fall again.
The window was open.
Cold air flowed into the room. Fresh. Clean. Nothing like the pollution-choked wind of Delhi.
He looked out.
And stopped breathing.
This world.
Big buildings stretched across the cityscape, tall, gleaming, made of glass and white stone. They weren't like the crumbling towers of South Delhi. These were alive. Light moved across their surfaces like water.
The sky was brighter here. Deeper. Two suns hung above the horizon, one large and golden, one smaller and pale blue. Their light mixed together, painting everything in soft, warm colors.
A massive ring circled the sky. It looked like a barrier, a translucent wall of energy that curved across the heavens, dotted with symbols that shifted and moved. People flew near it. Small figures with wings, or riding strange machines, or just... floating.
And in the distance.
Far, far away.
So far that it should have been invisible.
But clear as day.
A tower.
It rose from the center of the world like a mountain made by gods. It was so tall that clouds wrapped around its middle like a white scarf. The top disappeared into the sky, no end, no peak, just an endless climb into the light.
It was beautiful.
It was terrifying.
It was calling to him.
Veda stared at the tower. His gray eyes didn't blink.
Behind him, his mother moved around the room. She was cutting fruit on a small table, mangoes, apples, something orange he didn't recognize. The knife made soft thunk sounds against the wooden board.
His father stood by the door, phone pressed to his ear. His voice was low, hurried.
"Yes, yes, the report will come by next day. I will give the file to Ravee Barma. Yes. Yes. I understand. Thank you, sir."
He hung up. Sighed. Rubbed his face under his glasses. Then walked out of the room, still talking on the phone to someone else.
The door closed.
Veda was alone with his mother.
She hummed while she cut fruit. An old song. Something his real mother used to hum when she cooked.
He turned back to the window.
The tower stood there. Waiting.
"Do you like the view, Veda?"
The voice came from everywhere. Inside the walls. Inside his head. Inside the empty place where his heart used to beat.
Veda didn't turn around.
Young Veda appeared on the other side of the window. Floating in the air outside. His feet didn't touch anything. The wind passed through him like he wasn't there.
Their eyes met through the glass.
"This is your new world," Young Veda said. His voice was calm. Ancient. Cheerful. "Here you have your mother. Your father. The one who didn't run away with anyone. He is here. He loves you. He cares for you."
Veda tried to say something.
Young Veda raised a hand.
"Don't say again that you don't care, child. I know you only think about your mother. I know your past father was nothing but a shadow. I know you grew up watching her play both roles. I know you watched other children play with their fathers and never understood what a father was supposed to be."
Veda's jaw tightened.
"You know everything," he said quietly. "So you should also know how I felt. Looking at her. Tired. Broken. Still smiling for me. Still telling me everything would be okay."
Young Veda floated closer to the glass. His face softened.
"Indeed. Your past was ruined. But in this life, you have everything. A family. A home. A second chance."
He spread his arms wide.
"Join me, Veda. Not just for power. Not just for revenge. Join me, and you will have more than just a family. You will have the whole world. With my knowledge, I will guide you to the Heaven's door."
He laughed. Cheerful. Bright.
"Come. Let us make a contract."
Veda looked at him.
Through the glass.
Through the two suns and the floating people and the tower that touched the sky.
"No."
Young Veda stopped laughing.
"No?" His voice was quiet now.
"I refuse your offer."
Young Veda floated in silence. His gray eyes searched Veda's face.
"You know he is looking at you right now, don't you?"
Veda didn't answer.
"If you do nothing, if you refuse to grow, he will come for you. Not today. Not tomorrow. But someday. He will stand in front of you, and you will have nothing. No power. No knowledge. Just a family you couldn't protect."
Veda's hands curled into fists.
"Then let him come."
Young Veda's eyes narrowed.
"Let him come and kill me? A person who just arrived in a world he doesn't understand? You think an almighty being would waste his time on someone like that?"
"He wants to see you grow," Young Veda said, his voice rising. "He knows everything. He let you come here so he could harvest you. Like he has done with every other soul the Cosmic Law chose."
He floated through the glass. Passed through it like it was air. Now he was inside the room, hovering between Veda and the window.
"You are not the first one who got chosen, child. Many came. Many were born. Many grew strong. And in the end, many died. You are the next in line. Get strong. Or get eaten. Those are your only choices."
He pointed at the tower in the distance.
"When a plant does not grow, you throw it away. You make space for a new one to be born. That is his way. That has always been his way."
Veda looked at the tower.
Then at his mother, still cutting fruit, humming her song, unaware of anything.
Then at the floating figure who wore his face.
"I can't do this," Veda said.
His voice was quiet. Tired. Broken in a new way.
"I don't know anything about this world. About towers and contracts and Heavenly Lords. I don't want to fight. I don't want to kill anymore."
He looked down at his hands.
These hands had killed a thousand men.
These hands had held his wife while she died.
These hands had built a pyre on a muddy riverbank and watched the only woman he ever loved turn to ash.
"I want to live a normal life," he whispered. "A life with my family. My mother. Maybe... maybe even him."
He glanced toward the door where his father had disappeared.
"I never had a father. Not really. Now I have one. He looks weak. He cries too much. But he didn't run away. He stayed."
Veda looked up at Young Veda.
"I want to stay too."
Young Veda floated in silence.
For a long moment, he didn't speak. Didn't move. His ancient face held nothing, no anger, no disappointment, no judgment.
Then he smiled.
A small smile. Soft. Almost sad.
"Alright"
He floated backward toward the window.
"I will wait."
The wind picked up. Papers rustled. His mother's humming continued.
Young Veda passed through the glass and floated outside. The two suns caught his face, lighting up those gray eyes.
"You will change your mind," he said. "When the time comes. When the world shows you what it really is. When you realize that a normal life is not something this universe gives, it is something you take."
He began to fade. His body grew transparent, like smoke dissolving in light.
"Until then..."
He was gone.
The window was empty.
Just the tower. Just the two suns. Just the floating people and the barrier and the cold, clean wind.
Veda stood there.
His mother called from behind him. "Beta, come eat some fruit. You need strength."
He didn't turn.
He stared at the tower.