Chapter 9: The Choice That Bends Time
386 Words
Man, everything just... stopped. The world around Ishaan? Dead quiet. Even the damn wind took a break. Right in front of him, two watches floated: one red, buzzing like a heartbeat that refused to quit, and one black, cold as a grave, silent like time itself had been snuffed out.
“Choose,” the Faceless Man said. Not barking an order, more like—daring him.
Ishaan froze. Of course he did.
So, the red watch? That was the rabbit hole. More questions, more chaos, more diving into the spiral that seemed to never end. Maybe—just maybe—the chance to flip the whole script.
But the black watch? That was the end of the line. Closure. Letting go. Moving on.
Except—how the hell do you let go of your own story?
His whole life had been a scavenger hunt. Chasing after Narayan. Chasing Ravi. Trying to piece himself together out of all the broken bits.
He stared at the Faceless Man, and—this is wild—suddenly he saw what was really there.
It was him. Older. Worn out. Eyes carrying a whole universe’s worth of regret, replaying the same scene a thousand times.
Turns out, this spiral? Never belonged to Narayan. Or Ravi. It was Ishaan’s spiral, all along.
He reached out…
And picked the black watch.
Soon as his fingers brushed it, everything caved in on itself.
The cemetery? Gone. Time? Shattered, the watches crumbling to dust.
Ishaan was back—just like that—in his childhood bedroom. Clutching an old letter.
His dad’s handwriting.
> “Ishaan, I failed you. I didn’t know how to stay, but I never stopped watching the time we lost. I hope someday, you’ll forgive the hour I left.”
He folded the paper, eyes burning.
“I already have.”
Now, back in the present—dirt under his feet, the red watch cracked and useless. The spiral on the tombstone faded away.
And—finally—time started moving again.
That night, Ishaan lit a candle. Just one. No ticking clocks, no pulsing watches. He left the black watch on his desk, right beside a photo of the Nath brothers. Whispered,
“Thank you.”
Far off, a train whistle drifted through the night—soft, slow, like goodbye.
- Writer
