The village of Karla slept beneath a soft blanket of fog as Mercer stepped off the local bus. No one greeted him. No one made eye contact. Even the chai vendor who usually yelled about sugar levels spoke in whispers today.
The signboard pointing toward the Karla Station was rusted, half-fallen, and covered in moss—as if nature had tried to erase its existence.
He followed the overgrown trail for fifteen minutes until it opened to a concrete platform, choked with weeds. The station was built… but never used. Mercer's shoes scraped against the mossy surface as he walked toward the central waiting hall, the echo of his footsteps swallowed by stillness.
A single train track stretched into the distance, its rails vanishing into thick trees. There were no wires. No sign of connection. Just… an illusion of purpose.
And then, from behind the station counter, a voice.
"Right on time, Mercer."
He turned.
Out stepped a man in a grey trench coat, a fedora shadowing his face. Mercer couldn't see the eyes, but he recognized the aura—the kind that carried secrets like currency.
"You sent the message?"
The man nodded. "You found the crate?"
"I did."
"Then we're not too late." He tossed something through the air. Mercer caught it—a small metal key, shaped like an old locker lock. Inscribed in Devanagari: धरोहर – Dharohar – Heritage.
"What does this open?" Mercer asked.
"Not what," the man replied. "When."
Before Mercer could respond, a low rumble shook the ground beneath his feet. The rail track vibrated.
A distant whistle echoed through the valley.
"Don't mess with me," Mercer whispered, his pulse quickening.
But the man didn't flinch. He gestured toward the platform. "Go on. Step to the edge."
Mercer hesitated.
The mist parted.
And then… a train arrived.
But it wasn't made of metal.
Its body shimmered like molten silver. The lights were lanterns—real flames inside glass casings. The windows showed… not empty seats, but scenes—flickering glimpses of places Mercer remembered but never visited: a train accident in 1984, a flood rescue in 2001, a temple riot in 1992.
Each window was a memory. But not his.
The man in the coat stood beside him. "This train runs on timelines that were altered. Sacrificed. Censored. Destroyed. This is the 'Train of Forgotten Truths'. And now that you've unlocked the disc, it wants to show you everything."
Mercer stepped back. "Why me?"
"Because you're part of one of those memories," the man said. "You just don't know which one yet."
With a click of his fingers, the train vanished.
So did the man.
Mercer stood alone on the dead platform, holding a key that now felt far too heavy.
From his phone, a voice recording began playing on its own.
It was a little girl's voice.
"Papa… when are you coming home? The train left without you…"
Next Chapter Preview:
The team reunites as Mercer shares the unbelievable encounter. Vicky tries to recreate the phenomenon using vintage railway data and AI simulations. Meanwhile, Meera receives a letter written by her father—a man declared dead 12 years ago—in perfect, recent handwriting.
And a coded message appears in a crossword puzzle inside the day's newspaper:"Next station: M's past. Be ready."