When I opened my eyes, the first thing I noticed was the chill. I lay there for a few seconds, blinking slowly, trying to shake off a lingering fogginess. A dim light seeped in from somewhere—a window, maybe—but the ceiling above was nothing like the one in my apartment. The rough stone looked worn, cracked in places, like something out of another time entirely.

I sat up slowly, my head heavy and spinning, and tried to make sense of it all. Memories flitted in my mind, hazy and blurred: the bus, the streets crowded with Diwali celebrations, the box of kaju katli I had in my hands... I had been on my way home. Home to Mom, who’d been so excited to see me.

I looked around, and a sinking feeling hit me. Nothing here was familiar. The small room was lined with uneven stone walls, and the bed I sat on creaked under my weight. Everything looked handmade, as if it belonged to a different era. A low table with a chipped clay cup, a rough wooden chest in the corner… nothing like home.

Panic began to creep in as I tried to piece together what happened. Was this some strange hospital? No, nothing here hinted at that. And then, slowly, the memory of the accident settled back in. The sharp lurch as the bus skidded, the sickening crunch of impact… I remembered falling, the world going dark as the box of sweets slipped from my hands.

Mom. I swallowed hard, feeling the ache settle deep. I’d left her waiting on Diwali. She’d been looking forward to celebrating together, and I’d been too. I could picture her setting out the lamps, lighting the diyas, arranging everything perfectly. She had no idea that I wouldn’t make it home. And here I was, in some cold, strange place, alive yet worlds apart.

I ran a hand over my face, the smallness of it startling me. My fingers, my arms—everything felt wrong. Smaller, softer. It was like I didn’t fit in my own skin. Slowly, I forced myself to look down. These weren’t my hands. These were a child’s hands.

Panic surged again, harder, and I clamped down on it. One thing at a time, Keshav. Think this through. I’d always been logical, or at least tried to be. Right now, it was the only thing I could cling to. So I breathed in, then out, focusing on calming myself. If this wasn’t my body, then whose was it? And why did I feel so… so completely in it?

Before I could wrestle with the thought any longer, I heard footsteps. They were soft, steady, and headed straight for this room. I instinctively pulled the blanket tighter around me, not sure what to expect. The door creaked open, and a woman stepped inside. She looked to be in her mid-thirties, her face lined with worry yet radiating warmth. She had long, dark brown hair, braided loosely, and wore a plain, faded dress. Her gaze softened when she saw me, and she smiled, a gentle, motherly smile that was somehow both comforting and unsettling.

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"Mira? Are you awake, sweetheart?” she asked

Mira? The name jolted me. She was looking right at me, and I was the only one here. Mira—was that supposed to be me? I barely managed a nod, too stunned to speak.

“Oh, thank goodness,” she sighed, walking over to sit beside me. She placed a hand on my forehead, checking for a fever, her touch gentle yet firm. “You’ve been out for days, and you gave us all such a scare. How are you feeling?”

Her words felt distant, but her touch was so familiar, so caring, that it made something ache deep inside. I hadn’t seen her before, but she looked at me with such genuine love that it was hard not to respond. Whoever she was, she believed I was her daughter—this Mira.

“I’m… I’m okay,” I managed, my voice sounding small, foreign. The unfamiliarity sent a fresh wave of panic through me. I had to get a grip.

She looked relieved, her face relaxing as she brushed a lock of hair from my forehead. “You still feel a bit warm, but it’s so good to see you up. I’ll get you something to eat soon. You need to regain your strength.” She smiled, patting my hand gently.

I forced myself to nod again, feeling a thousand emotions colliding inside. She watched me for a moment, her face soft and full of concern. And then she pulled me into a gentle hug, resting her chin on my head. The embrace was warm and familiar, and despite everything, I found myself leaning into it. I didn’t understand any of this, didn’t know what was happening or why, but the comfort of her hug… it felt real, grounding. It felt like home in a way I hadn’t expected.

She pulled back, holding my hand with a reassuring squeeze. “I’ll be right back, Mira. Don’t go anywhere,” she teased gently, and then, with one last look, she left the room.

As soon as she was gone, I exhaled, feeling the weight of it all settle on me again. My mind spun with questions, with fears, and with a loss I could hardly put into words. If this was real, if this was my life now… then I had no way back to my old one. I had no way to reach Mom, to tell her that I loved her, that I hadn’t forgotten her. That I had been on my way to see her, that I’d made sweets for her because I knew how much it would mean. And now I was here, left with nothing but that memory.

The grief settled in, heavy and unrelenting, and I let it wash over me, if only for a moment. It hurt to realize that I’d left my mom waiting, that I wouldn’t be there to see her light the lamps or hear her laugh. But as the grief ebbed, I reminded myself to breathe, to focus. If I really was here, if this was somehow real, I had to keep going. I had to survive. And maybe, in time, I’d understand how and why I’d come to be here.

I glanced around the room again, taking in the details, looking for any sign of familiarity or a clue about where I was. But it all looked like something out of an old painting—medieval, almost. No electricity, no technology, only the simplest of furniture and belongings.

In the end, there was only one certainty: I was here, in this strange new body, in this strange new world. I didn’t know how or why, but I would have to figure it out. For now, I would have to be Mira, whoever she was. I’d play along, learn what I could, and try to understand the rules of this new life.

The woman returned, carrying a small bowl of soup. She set it beside me, then settled down on the edge of the bed, watching me with that same worried expression. “Here you go, dear. Just a little to start.”

I picked up the spoon and took a small sip, feeling the warmth spread through me. It was comforting in a way, something tangible to hold onto. I glanced up at her, feeling the weight of her gaze, and gave a small smile.

“Thank you, Mother,” I murmured, the word feeling strange yet oddly right.

Her face softened, and she patted my hand. “Get some rest, Mira. I’ll be here if you need anything.”

With that, she left again, leaving me alone to face the quiet of the room. I lay back, staring at the ceiling, my mind still swirling. There was so much I didn’t understand, so many questions without answers. But if this was my life now, I’d have to find a way to live it, to make sense of it all.

I closed my eyes, my mind drifting to the memory of Diwali, of Mom’s smile, and of the life I’d left behind. But there was no turning back now. Somehow, I had to move forward, step by step, in this strange new world.