As the minutes wound, the clip unraveled into a different current: not a show episode, but fragments—snatches of argument, a child's lullaby, a ledger being closed, the slap of a hand refusing apology. Faces passed without introduction, eyes that knew each other too well. When a familiar street name—Bhatauli—appeared painted on a wall, Arjun's pulse quickened. It was a real place. The footage stitched itself around that place like a secret memory sewn into clothing.
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Inside was a room where people sat around a table and passed papers like bland, official things. A woman rose to look at him, and for a dizzy second their eyes met like two mirrors. Her face was as he'd seen it on screen and not at all. "Yes?" she asked, voice flat. As the minutes wound, the clip unraveled into