Parralal world
Rajan's pov:
It has been exactly two days since I woke up here—in this world that feels like my own memories viewed through a distorted mirror. I call it a "parallel" world because, on every street corner and in every whisper of wind, I recognize echoes of the life I left behind… and yet the rules that bind this reality have been rewritten.
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The morning I first opened my eyes, I expected sterile white walls and the hiss of a ventilator. Instead, I found myself lying beneath silk sheets that smelled of rosewater and rain. My head throbbed with confusion; my heart pounded so fiercely I thought the surgeons had restarted me in a haste. The ceiling above me was a carved lattice of dark wood, inlaid with mother‑of‑pearl that caught the first rays of dawn like scattered stardust.
Slowly, I pushed aside the sheets. My feet touched a marble floor, cold and smooth in a way that made me shiver. With each step, I felt as though I were walking through someone else's dream. Portraits lined the hallway walls—oil paintings of a family I did not recognize, yet the faces there smiled at me as if greeting a long‑lost son. A man with kind eyes and a trimmed beard stood beside a woman in sapphire silk; between them, a boy who looked very much like me. My breath hitched. I had never called anyone "father" or "mother" without tremor, yet in that moment I felt a flicker of belonging.
My first coherent thought: Where am I?
My second: Am I dead?
.
I turned a corner and found a portrait of my "big brother"—Viren, he would later tell me. In the painting, he was draping an arm around my shoulder, and my own face in that portrait carried the barest hint of a smile. In every image that followed—anniversary celebrations, birthdays, school graduations—I wore the same boyish grin that I remembered from childhood… but I had utterly no recollection of any of it.
On a console table beneath the gallery of portraits sat a leather‑bound planner embossed with gilt letters: "Rajan – Daily Agenda." I picked it up with trembling fingers. Inside, neat handwriting recorded the day's schedule:
7:00 Morning meditation at Temple of Concord
9:00 Breakfast with Viren
10:00 World Voice Selection Ceremony
12:00 Council Induction Luncheon
15:00 Philosophy Seminar: Memory and Identity
18:00 Evening Soirée at Chancellor's Palace
No mention of classes or clinical rounds. No urgent tests or doctor's visits. Instead, civic ceremonies and seminars. I closed the planner, heart racing. Ceremonies? Luncheons? Why would I attend those? In my previous life, I had been a man with no family, no grand house, scraping by on part‑time jobs. The dissonance struck me like a blow.
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I found Viren in the kitchen—a vast space of pale stone counters and polished copper pans. He stood by a brass urn, filling steaming cups of cardamom‑scented coffee. The golden liquid glimmered in delicate porcelain mugs.
"Morning," he said, offering a cup. His voice was warm, familiar—yet I felt like a stranger sitting across the table. He poured two mugs and slid one toward me. The aroma hit me first: rich spices, warm roast. I wrapped both hands around the cup and inhaled deeply, grounding myself in this strange new reality.
"I slept… well," I said hesitantly, feeling ridiculous.
He smiled. "Good. You'll need your strength for today."
Before I could ask which day, he gestured to a breakfast spread that would have fed an army: fluffy sourdough loaves, platters of spiced eggs, fresh fruit drizzled with honey, steaming millet porridge, and crispy fried pastries filled with lentils. It was all so… abundant. I remembered simpler fare—bread and banana, instant noodles—yet he seemed to consider this modest.
As I ate, I studied him. Viren looked like someone I had known my whole life. He possessed a quiet confidence, a kindness in his eyes that brooked no argument. Yet the undercurrent of my thoughts shouted: None of this is real. Every spoonful of porridge felt like a reminder that I was an imposter here.
.
After breakfast, he drove me into the heart of the city—a place of gleaming spires and lush avenues. On the way, he explained the broad strokes of this world's history, as if reciting from memory.
"In this world, the Great Unification happened centuries ago," he said, voice measured. "When the Plague of Shadows nearly wiped out humanity, the faiths of the world realized that only unity could save us. Since then, no large‑scale war has been recorded."
I stared out the window at a monument crowned with intertwined hands—an artistic representation of the world's faiths supporting one another. In my world, we'd spent centuries massacring one another over smaller differences. Here, the diversity of religion seemed less like a battleground and more like a mosaic. Muslims and Hindus, Christians and Buddhists: all stood as pillars of a single pantheon of belief. I could not recall such harmony in any history I had learned.
"Does it… really work?" I asked, voice tight.
He nodded. "To an extent. We still have conflicts—local disputes, resource fights—but never on the scale of ancient wars. The fear of an external threat, real or imagined, keeps us vigilant."
I found myself both envious and wary. There was beauty in peace, certainly. But I wondered if a peace born of fear, of a belief in a vague "enemy," could last. My own memories of war—of bombs, of refugee camps, of news cameras capturing flames—felt like another universe.
.
Viren dropped me at the grand gates of the Temple of Concord, an enormous pavilion where interfaith services were held daily. I entered, slipping off my shoes onto polished marble. Within, priests in saffron robes, white tunics, and flowing thawbs conducted a simultaneous service: Sanskrit chants blending into Arabic mystic poetry, gospel hymns melding with Buddhist mantras. The architecture itself was an allegory—pillars of granite inscribed with symbols of all major faiths. A single dome roof let in sunlight that pooled on the central altar, illuminating a crystal flame that never extinguished.
I knelt among worshipers who did not cast disapproving glances at me, a newcomer, but rather welcomed me with quiet smiles. I closed my eyes and tried to pray. The words would not come. I felt like I was betraying my own memories—reciting mantras I did not know—yet the sincerity around me urged me to try.
When the service ended, I left the temple humbled, chest tight with the realization that in this world people chose to see themselves as extensions of one another's spirits. It was the opposite of what I remembered: a world that fractured over dogma and declared difference the enemy. Here, difference was celebrated…and yet I sensed an underlying dread that if that unity failed, the result would be extinction.
.
At 10 AM, I joined a small gathering in the central plaza—a wide expanse of cobblestones ringing a raised platform. A brass band played soft anthems of unity as crowds murmured in respectful hush. I slipped into the back, hoping to understand what this "World Voice Selection" entailed.
No campaigning flags fluttered. No podiums bore the emblems of rival parties. Instead, a single scroll was unfurled by temple acolytes, and from behind a carved stone arch came a calm, gender‑neutral voice over hidden speakers:
> "Today, the World Voice designates the following guardians of public welfare…"
"For Health and Healing: Dr. Amara Joshi."
"For Education and Enlightenment: Professor Harish Patel."
"For Commerce and Sustenance: Chancellor Kiran Rai."
Each name was met with a single bell toll. No cheers, no boos—only quiet respect. Within minutes, the named individuals emerged from side doors, bowing once before the entire assembly. I caught a glimpse of Chancellor Kiran Rai—a dignified woman whose smile conveyed both grace and resolve.
I scanned the crowd. No one questioned the fairness of the Voice. Some eyes shone with pride, others with relief. A commentator behind me whispered, "We may not understand how it chooses, but it has never been wrong. Never has it erred in selecting those who truly serve."
In my world, I had seen promises broken and elections rigged. Here, though, the idea of entrusting leadership to an unseen force seemed less mad, awkwardly reassuring. Could humanity place its faith in an incorporeal chorus? I opened the planner on my phone—entries for every day's service of the Voice, marked in precise script. There were no protest rallies, no petitions. Just acceptance.
.
That evening, I returned home with a sense of awe and unease. In my bedroom, I paused before a full‑length mirror. The face that stared back was my own—yet in the eyes I saw something new: a man unmoored, standing at the edge of a world that offered unity at the price of forgetting.
I reached out, fingertips brushing the cold glass. "Who am I, here?" I whispered into the reflection.
The mirror answered only with my own uncertain gaze.
I realized then that if I was to survive—or truly live—in this world, I would have to embrace both its promise and its hidden fears. And it would start with understanding why I was here, in a life of silk and ceremony instead of hospitals and scarcity.
So I made a vow: I would learn the history this world never taught, decipher the whispers behind its perfect facade, and reconcile the transplanted heart in my chest with the memories of the boy who once sacrificed himself for love.
Because in this rewritten reality, the only constant was the beat of my own—or perhaps someone else's—heart, pulsing with questions that demanded answers.
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The following day, I visited my old school—or what should've been my old school.
But this building wasn't the same as the dusty halls and rusting gates I remembered from my first life. The new version of my school was immaculate and enormous. Marble floors, digital displays, meditation corners, a library the size of a palace wing. Yet it was what wasn't said in the brochure that made it unsettling.
Something about the school felt… off.
I was guided around by a polite student volunteer—a girl named Mira, who seemed just as unnerved as I was. Every time we passed a certain hallway—narrow, with old wooden doors untouched by renovation—she walked faster. On our second pass, I stopped.
"What's down there?"
She hesitated. "Storage rooms."
I tilted my head. "Doesn't look like anyone's been there in years."
Her mouth twitched. "Because no one has. That wing's been closed since—well… since the incident."
She wasn't going to tell me. But I waited. Silence, after all, has a way of making people talk.
Finally, she murmured, "There was a boy. A long time ago. His name was Viraj. He disappeared inside the third room on the left. Locked from the inside. No one ever found the key."
I blinked. "Disappeared?"
She nodded once. "They say he went in after hearing a whisper from the room. Something called to him."
My heart chilled. "And what happened?"
"No one knows. The cameras caught him walking in, but never coming out. When they broke the door weeks later, the room was empty—no dust disturbed, no sign of him. Just his backpack neatly folded on a chair." She paused. "And… his shoes were placed right in front of the door. As if he meant to vanish."
Later, I heard another tale from a janitor while I pretended to wait for a ride. He said there was a small circular room tucked beneath the amphitheater stairs. Its walls were covered in mirrors—used decades ago for a psychology experiment.
"After dark," he said, sweeping slowly with his broom, "a girl appears in one of the mirrors. No reflection—just her, watching."
"She a ghost?" I asked.
He scratched his stubble. "Or something else. People say if you stare too long, she smiles at you."
I waited.
"Smiles. But it's wrong, you know? The mouth doesn't stop moving. Like it keeps stretching. Until the glass begins to crack."
"And then?"
"No one stays that long. Some students tried it. One went blind in his left eye. Said he saw her outside the mirror. Staring from behind his reflection."
The most chilling tale, though, came from a history teacher, who spoke about the old theater stage.
"In the middle of the night, there's music," she said. "Not mechanical. A soft choir, like humming. But no one's singing."
She told me about one student—a boy named Alif—who stayed late to finish a monologue. He heard the voices and, thinking it was a prank, went below the stage to confront them.
"They found him curled in the corner," she whispered. "Mouth open. Screaming without sound."
He never spoke again.
I returned home that night unable to sleep. Every tale replayed in my head like a haunted film reel. Around midnight, I got out of bed and walked to the bookshelf in my room. I didn't know why—just a strange compulsion pulling at me like thread on a needle.
That's when I saw it: a strange, leather-bound book I hadn't noticed before. No title. No author. Just a symbol on the cover—three black dots inside a circle, arranged like a triangle.
I opened it.
Every page was blank.
White. Flawless.
Except… the paper didn't feel like paper.
It had a softness. A warmth. As if it retained heat. The surface was too smooth. When I pressed my fingers across one sheet, a chill ran down my spine. It felt… like skin. Human skin.
I dropped it. It hit the floor with a dull thump.
No echo.
When I picked it up again, the page I had touched had a faint outline—like my fingerprint had burned itself onto the surface, almost imperceptible but there.
I flipped through, fast, now frightened. All white. All wrong.
The very last page had only one thing written on it:
"You're in the wrong body."