Time Is a Wound

"Time doesn't heal all wounds. Sometimes, it keeps them alive."

After the mirror shattered, time began to break.

Not all at once — but in fragments.

Ash in the air would fall upward.

Mira would say something — and five minutes later, the echo would happen before her mouth moved.

Khushi ran across the hall and disappeared — only to be found waiting on the other side, saying,

"I already did that, Bhaiya."

Yash sat in silence.

Something inside him — a coil of divinity — had twisted.

The second form was waking again.

🕒 Time.

But this time, it didn't come with control.

It came with memories.

Of moments that never happened.

Of deaths he hadn't died — yet.

One where Khushi bled out in his arms.

One where Mira begged him not to turn into a god.

One where he saw himself… becoming the mirror-Yash.

The more he used the power, the more those versions bled through.

Ankita confronted him.

"You're losing grip. This isn't power. This is collapse."

"I don't need saving," Yash muttered.

"Then tell that to the scar across your chest… that no one remembers giving you."

Mira ran diagnostics on him — again.

The divine mark on his back was now fracturing.

Not breaking — but splitting, like a timeline under pressure.

"Your form isn't meant to handle this," she whispered.

"Time isn't a weapon, Yash. It's a wound."

That night, he stood outside Ashtashram — and saw stars falling in reverse.

Not shooting stars.

Memories, maybe.

And one of them whispered:

"Choose your past wisely. You don't get a second future."

He turned away — and the night skipped like a broken video.

Three hours passed.

In three steps.

And someone behind him spoke:

"You're not ready."

It was himself.

But older.

Tired.

Alone.

And already broken.