The house was too quiet that night.
Even the ceiling fan seemed to hold its breath.
I sat on the floor of my room, knees pulled to my chest, the photo my father had shown me spread out beside me. Two boys. One of them was me. Or so I had believed. The other — the one he called Ruhan — stood a little taller, his smile slightly more lopsided.
Was that the real difference?
Or was it something deeper?
I couldn't sit with the silence anymore. I needed answers. Real ones. Not reflections. Not riddles written on glass.
I crept into the hallway, careful not to wake anyone. The photo clutched tight in my hand.
The attic hatch was where it had always been — just above the linen closet. I hadn't been up there in years. Not since Mom yelled at me for nearly falling off the step stool trying to retrieve my old comic stash.
I pulled the ladder down. Climbed slowly.
Dust stung my nose as I pushed the attic door open.
It smelled like old memories and mothballs.
There were boxes. Dozens of them. Labeled by year, some so faint they were nearly illegible. I shuffled through them, each one full of relics: school trophies, broken toy pieces, birthday hats, faded report cards.
Then one box caught my eye.
It wasn't labeled.
It was taped shut twice — once with regular tape, and then again with electrical tape, like someone wanted to make sure it never opened by accident.
I pried it open.
Inside: a stack of journals.
All bound in cracked brown leather. All marked with a single name on the spine.
Ruhan S.
I opened the top one, my hands trembling.
March 14th
"Today I caught myself forgetting the taste of lemon. Not metaphorically. I ate one. I didn't flinch. It scared me."
March 15th
"Harish said he felt like I wasn't… 'present.' He joked that maybe I had a clone. I laughed with him. But I didn't feel the joke."
March 16th
"I looked in the mirror and it said nothing. That's worse than seeing words."
My blood ran cold.
These were the thoughts of someone becoming less himself — piece by piece.
And then came March 17th — the day before the collapse.
"If you find this… and you're me… you have to remember that I loved them. All of them. Even if they don't remember me back. Even if they think you're the real one now.
Just take care of them. Please."
The journal slipped from my hands.
I felt the attic spin around me.
So he knew. The original Ruhan knew he was slipping. Replaced? Rewritten? It wasn't clear. But it was happening.
And I — whoever I was now — had taken his place.
I wasn't the villain.
But I wasn't innocent either.
I heard the attic ladder creak.
Then: "Ruhan?" It was my brother's voice. Younger. Curious. "You up there?"
I wanted to cry. Laugh. Scream.
Instead, I picked up the journal, hugged it to my chest, and whispered to the shadows:
"I'll protect them. Like you asked."
But deep down, I knew Volume 1 of this second life was ending...
And the reckoning of Volume 2 was just one sunrise away !