For several seconds, neither Meera nor I moved.
The apartment door remained half-open.
Rainwater dripped from the edge of my jacket onto the hallway floor.
Everything felt unnaturally quiet.
The kind of silence that makes your instincts scream that something is wrong.
Very wrong.
And right in the middle of my apartment floor lay the photograph.
Face down.
Waiting.
"Maybe we shouldn't go in."
Meera's voice was barely above a whisper.
I understood why she was nervous.
Whoever had broken into my apartment clearly wanted us to find something.
And people like that rarely left gifts.
I pulled out my phone.
No new messages.
No calls.
Nothing.
Which somehow made the situation worse.
Because whoever had done this wasn't trying to contact us anymore.
They were trying to send a message.
Carefully, I stepped inside.
The apartment looked untouched at first glance.
The couch.
The bookshelves.
The dining table.
Everything seemed normal.
But after living here for years, I immediately noticed the differences.
A drawer was slightly open.
One chair had been moved.
Several books were no longer in their usual places.
Someone had searched the apartment.
Thoroughly.
"Did they find anything?"
Meera asked quietly.
I didn't know.
And that uncertainty terrified me.
Because I still had no idea what parts of my life were real and what parts had been manipulated.
Slowly, I approached the photograph.
Every step felt heavier than the last.
Then I bent down and picked it up.
The moment I turned it over, my blood ran cold.
It was another old photograph.
Taken three years ago.
But unlike the one from the boathouse...
This one wasn't happy.
The image showed a hospital corridor.
A blurry security camera photograph.
Several people stood near a room.
My father.
Kabir.
Dr. Raghav Malhotra.
And me.
Lying unconscious on a hospital bed being pushed through the hallway.
My breathing stopped.
Because written across the bottom of the photograph were six words.
"They were all there that night."
The room suddenly felt smaller.
Meera stared at the image.
Then looked at me.
"This wasn't left by accident."
"No."
My voice sounded distant.
"Someone wants us to doubt them."
Or maybe...
Someone wanted us to see the truth.
That possibility scared me even more.
I turned the photograph over.
There was something written on the back.
A single address.
St. Gabriel Medical Research Center
And beneath it:
Room 309
I froze.
Because the name triggered something.
Not a memory.
A feeling.
A deep sense of dread.
My headache returned instantly.
Hospital lights.
Machines.
White walls.
Room 309.
A woman crying.
Someone shouting.
A door slamming shut.
Then darkness.
I grabbed the edge of the table for support.
"Arjun!"
Meera rushed toward me.
"I'm okay."
It was a lie.
Every recovered memory felt stronger now.
Sharper.
Less fragmented.
Almost like the wall inside my mind was finally beginning to break.
And something told me that once it completely collapsed...
There would be no way back.
Suddenly, Meera's attention shifted toward my desk.
"What's that?"
I followed her gaze.
My voice recorder.
The same recorder I'd been using for months.
The one where I saved memory flashes.
Dreams.
Observations.
Anything I was afraid of forgetting.
Except now...
It wasn't where I'd left it.
The device sat neatly in the center of the desk.
Almost as if someone had placed it there deliberately.
A red light blinked softly.
My pulse quickened.
"There wasn't a recording on it before."
Meera's face paled.
"Arjun..."
I already knew.
Someone had added something.
Slowly, I picked up the recorder.
My fingers felt cold.
The display showed one new file.
REC_309
Room 309.
The same number from the photograph.
Neither of us spoke.
Then I pressed play.
Static filled the room.
Several seconds passed.
Then a voice appeared.
My voice.
Three years younger.
For a moment, I couldn't breathe.
"Test recording."
The younger version of me sounded nervous.
Exhausted.
Afraid.
"If anyone is listening to this..."
The recording crackled briefly.
"...then something went wrong."
Meera grabbed my arm.
I kept listening.
"We don't have much time."
Background noises echoed faintly.
Hospital equipment.
Footsteps.
Voices.
Then:
"Aisha was right."
My heart slammed against my ribs.
"Aisha discovered the truth about Project Echo."
The recording distorted again.
"They're not transferring memories."
A pause.
"They're replacing them."
Silence filled the apartment.
Neither of us moved.
Neither of us breathed.
Because that single sentence changed everything.
Replacing memories.
Not storing them.
Not copying them.
Replacing them.
Suddenly, countless unanswered questions made horrifying sense.
Why some memories felt incomplete.
Why certain parts of my past seemed artificial.
Why some emotional reactions felt disconnected from the events themselves.
Someone hadn't simply erased my memories.
Someone may have altered them.
The recording continued.
"If this message survives..."
My younger voice sounded desperate now.
"...don't trust what you remember."
The room felt ice cold.
Then came the final sentence.
The sentence that shattered everything.
"Because one of your memories doesn't belong to you."
The recording ended.
Static disappeared.
Silence returned.
For several seconds, neither Meera nor I spoke.
Because there was only one thought in my head.
If one of my memories wasn't mine...
Then whose memory had been placed inside my mind?
And why?
Outside, lightning flashed across the dark sky.
At that exact moment, my phone vibrated.
Unknown Number.
A new message appeared.
"Room 309 still exists."
A second message arrived immediately.
"Come alone if you want the truth."
Then a third.
And this one made my blood freeze.
"Ask yourself why you remember Meera..."
The typing bubble appeared again.
Slowly
Deliberately.
Then the final message arrived.
"...but can't remember the girl who died for you."
My hands started shaking.
Because for the first time since this nightmare began...
I realized something horrifying.
I could remember Meera's face perfectly now.
But Aisha's face was already becoming blurry again.
As if someone...
Or something...
Was trying to make me forget her.