1. The Call at 2:13 A.M.

1. The Call at 2:13 A.M. At exactly 2:13 a.m., the telephone rang in a hospital that had been abandoned for twenty-three years. Three times. Then it stopped. Across the road, inside a small security cabin, Arjun Mehra lifted his head from his desk. He had been asleep for nearly an hour, his cheek resting on an unfinished crossword puzzle, when the sound startled him awake. He checked his mobile phone. 2:13 a.m. He looked toward the hospital. The building stood behind a rusted iron fence, its windows black and empty. Creepers strangled the walls. The sign above the entrance had lost half its letters, leaving only the words St. Agnes Hosp... visible beneath the moonlight. The hospital had closed in 2003 after a fire destroyed its east wing. Eleven patients and three staff members had died. The survivors were transferred elsewhere, and the building was sealed pending an investigation that had somehow lasted longer than the hospital itself. Arjun had taken the night-security job two months earlier. The salary was poor, but the work was easy. He had to patrol the grounds, check the locks, and ensure that nobody entered the property before the demolition crew arrived. The only unusual instruction in his contract was a handwritten note attached to the last page. IF THE TELEPHONE RINGS AFTER MIDNIGHT, DO NOT ANSWER IT. Arjun had laughed when he read it. Now he wasn't laughing. The telephone inside the hospital had been disconnected for more than two decades. He stood, pulled on his jacket, and stepped outside. The air smelled of rain and something faintly metallic. He crossed the road and approached the gate. A chain held it shut, secured with a heavy padlock. He shone his torch through the bars. Nothing moved inside. Then the telephone rang again. The sound came from the third floor. Arjun counted the rings. One. Two. Three. He backed away. A fourth ring sounded. He remembered the note. He remembered the stories the local tea seller had told him about nurses seen walking through the corridors, about a child crying in an empty lift, about footsteps that followed visitors without ever catching up. He was about to return to his cabin when a face appeared behind an upstairs window. A little girl. She wore a pale hospital gown, and her black hair hung wet against her cheeks. She raised one hand and pressed it to the glass. Arjun stopped breathing. The girl mouthed two words. Help me. Then she disappeared. Arjun ran back to his cabin and locked the door. He spent the rest of the night staring at the hospital, waiting for daylight. At 6:00 a.m., his supervisor arrived. Arjun told him everything. The supervisor listened without interrupting, then took out a cigarette. “You saw a child on the third floor?” “Yes.” “And you heard the telephone?” “Yes.” The man lit his cigarette with shaking hands. “Then you should resign.” Arjun stared at him. “What?” The supervisor looked toward the hospital. “My brother worked there before the fire. He told me something about that building. Something I didn't believe until now.” “What did he tell you?” The man swallowed. “There was no child among the patients who died.” He turned to Arjun. “But there was a child among the patients who disappeared.” Then he drove away without another word. Arjun should have quit that morning. Instead, at 9:00 a.m., he went to the police station and asked for the original fire-investigation records. He wanted answers. He would soon discover that answers could be more dangerous than ghosts. 2. Room 309 The records were stored in a basement archive that smelled of mildew and old paper. A young constable helped Arjun search through the files. They found the fire report, witness statements, photographs of the damaged wards, and a list of the fourteen people believed to have been inside the building when the fire began. Eleven patients. Three staff members. No children. Yet the hospital's old admission register told a different story. On a page dated October 17, 2003, someone had written a name in red ink. MEERA SHARMA — AGE 8 — ROOM 309. Beside it was a note. Patient transferred at 2:13 a.m. There was no destination. No signature. No record of discharge. Arjun stared at the page. “Was she one of the survivors?” The constable shook his head. “There were no survivors from the east wing.” “Then why does it say transferred?” “Maybe she was moved before the fire.” “Where?” The constable shrugged. Arjun copied the name and address of the doctor who had signed the admission form. Dr. Dev Malik. He lived in a retirement home on the outskirts of the city. Arjun found him that afternoon, sitting beside a window, watching rain fall on a garden full of dying flowers. The doctor was eighty-two, thin as a dried branch, with pale eyes that seemed to look through people rather than at them. When Arjun mentioned St. Agnes Hospital, the old man's hands began to tremble. When he mentioned Meera Sharma, the doctor dropped his cup. “Where did you hear that name?” he whispered. “In the admission register.” Dr. Malik stared at him for a long time. Then he asked, “Did you hear that?” Arjun turned toward the window. “What's that?” “The bell.” There was no bell. Only the rain. Dr. Malik began to cry. “You must leave that hospital. You must leave it tonight.” “Why?” “Because Meera is still there.” Arjun leaned forward. “Who is she?” The doctor closed his eyes. “She was my patient.” “What happened to her?” “I failed her.” “How?” Dr. Malik pressed his palms against his face. “Her mother brought her to us because she had stopped speaking. She said the girl had been talking to someone who wasn't there. Someone who lived inside mirrors.” Arjun felt a chill creep up his spine. “The girl was frightened of mirrors,” the doctor continued. “She covered every reflective surface in her house. Her mother thought it was a game until the girl began describing things she couldn't possibly know.” “What things?” “The names of dead people. The circumstances of their deaths. Things that hadn't happened yet.” He looked at Arjun. “Then one night, she told her mother that eleven people were going to die in a fire.” Arjun sat very still. “The fire happened three days later,” the doctor whispered. “What happened to Meera?” Dr. Malik's lips trembled. “I put her in Room 309. I thought the locked ward would protect her from whatever she was seeing.” “And?” The doctor looked toward the garden. “At 2:13 a.m., every mirror in the hospital shattered at once.” He paused. “When the staff reached Room 309, the bed was empty.” Arjun stood. “What about the fire?” Dr. Malik looked at him with unbearable sadness. “The fire began eleven minutes later.” He took Arjun's wrist. “Listen carefully. If you see a little girl in that hospital, don't follow her. If she speaks to you, don't answer. And if you find Room 309, never look into the mirror.” “Why?” The doctor released him. “Because the girl in the mirror isn't Meera.” He leaned close and whispered: “It's the thing that took her place.” 3. The Woman in the Photograph Arjun returned to the hospital that evening. He told himself he was looking for evidence, not ghosts. He carried a torch, a camera, a first-aid kit, and a small crowbar. He had also brought a photograph of his mother, who had died when he was twelve. He kept it in his wallet. He didn't know why he had brought it. Perhaps some part of him wanted proof that the dead could not return. Perhaps another part wanted them to. The chain on the hospital gate was still locked, but the padlock lay on the ground, split neatly in half. He entered. Inside, the reception area was covered in dust. A broken chandelier hung above a row of overturned chairs. The walls were stained with smoke, and the air smelled of wet plaster. His torch illuminated a noticeboard. Most of the papers had rotted away, but one photograph remained intact. A group of nurses stood outside the hospital, smiling at the camera. At the far end stood a woman in a white coat. Arjun's breath caught. He knew that face. It was his mother. Not someone who looked like her. His mother. The same dark eyes. The same small scar above her eyebrow. The same expression she wore whenever she was trying not to laugh. He pulled the photograph from the board. On the back, someone had written: St. Agnes Hospital, October 2003. His mother had died in 2015. Arjun had been told she worked as a schoolteacher before becoming ill. He had never known she had been a nurse. A sound came from upstairs. A child laughing. He turned toward the staircase. “Hello?” His voice echoed through the empty building. Then a little girl spoke from above. “You came back.” Arjun gripped his torch. “Meera?” A small figure appeared at the top of the stairs. The girl wore the same pale gown he had seen through the window. Her face was colourless, and her eyes were too dark for the weak light. She looked at him. “You took your time.” Arjun climbed one step. “Who are you?” The girl smiled. “You know who I am.” “I don't.” “You've been looking for me your whole life.” He stopped. The girl turned and walked down the corridor. Arjun followed. He passed rooms filled with broken beds, rusted medical equipment, and curtains that moved although there was no wind. On one wall, someone had scratched hundreds of tiny lines into the paint. They were all grouped in sets of eleven. At the end of the corridor stood a door. ROOM 309. The girl placed her palm against it. “Your mother is waiting inside.” Arjun felt his heart stumble. “What did you say?” “She wants to see you.” He reached for the handle. Then he remembered Dr. Malik's warning. Never look into the mirror. Arjun withdrew his hand. The girl watched him. “Why are you afraid?” “I'm not.” “Then open it.” He stepped back. The girl tilted her head. “She's been waiting a very long time.” Then the corridor lights flickered. For one brief instant, Arjun saw the girl as she truly was. Her neck was bent at an impossible angle. Her mouth stretched almost to her ears. And her shadow had eleven heads. The lights went out. When they returned, she was gone. On the door to Room 309, fresh letters had appeared, carved into the wood. WE'RE NOT ALONE. Arjun ran. He didn't stop until he reached the gate. And all the way back to his cabin, he could hear a child laughing in the back seat of his car. 4. Eleven Dead Names Arjun did not sleep. At sunrise, he spread the hospital records across his desk and began searching for the names of the eleven patients who had died in the fire. The list was incomplete. Three names had been crossed out. Two had been replaced with initials. One had been written over so many times that the paper had nearly torn. But he found something strange. Every patient on the list had been admitted to Room 309 at some point during the month before the fire. All eleven had reported seeing a little girl in a mirror. All eleven had died on the same night. And every death certificate had been signed by Dr. Dev Malik. Arjun called the retirement home. Dr. Malik had died during the night. The nurse said he had been found sitting beside his window, holding a photograph of a little girl. On the back, he had written a single sentence. I should have opened the door. Arjun hung up. His mobile phone rang immediately. Unknown number. He answered. A woman's voice whispered, “Arjun?” He knew that voice. He had not heard it in fourteen years, but he knew it as surely as he knew his own name. “Mum?” “I need you to listen carefully.” He stood. “Where are you?” “I'm sorry I lied to you.” “What are you talking about?” “The hospital. Meera. Everything.” Arjun's fingers tightened around the phone. “You worked at St. Agnes?” “Yes.” “Why didn't you tell me?” “Because I was trying to protect you.” “From what?” A long silence followed. Then his mother whispered, “From yourself.” The line crackled. “Mum?” “You must leave the hospital before midnight. Don't go to Room 309. Don't answer the telephone. And if you see your own reflection—” The call ended. Arjun stared at the screen. A message appeared. YOU HAVE 11 HOURS LEFT. He looked at the clock. 1:13 p.m. He had eleven hours until midnight. He called the number back. A recorded voice answered. “The number you have dialled does not exist.” Arjun looked at the photograph of his mother. For the first time, he noticed something in the background. Behind the smiling nurses, a little girl stood at a window. Her face was pressed against the glass. Her hand was raised. And beneath the photograph, in tiny writing he hadn't seen before, were the words: Patient 12: Arjun Mehra. Age 8. He dropped the picture. He was thirty-three years old. He had never been a patient at St. Agnes. He had never even visited the hospital before taking the security job. At least, that was what he remembered. 5. The Missing Years Arjun drove to the municipal archive and demanded his childhood medical records. The clerk searched for nearly an hour before returning with a thin folder. “Your records are incomplete,” she said. “There was a transfer when you were eight.” “Transfer to where?” She read the document. “St. Agnes Hospital.” Arjun felt the room begin to spin. “No.” The clerk looked up. “Is something wrong?” “I was never there.” She turned the folder toward him. The admission date was October 17, 2003. The diagnosis read: SEVERE TRAUMA FOLLOWING DOMESTIC INCIDENT. MEMORY DISORDER. Below it was his mother's signature. Arjun read the report three times. The final page contained a note from Dr. Malik. Patient insists that a girl named Meera visits him at night. He describes her as his sister, although no sibling is listed in his family records. Patient refuses to acknowledge that the girl in Room 309 is not real. Arjun closed the folder. His phone rang. Unknown number. He answered without speaking. A child's voice whispered, “Arjun?” “Who is this?” “It's Meera.” He shut his eyes. “Where are you?” “Where you left me.” “What does that mean?” “You promised you'd never forget.” The call ended. Arjun sat motionless for several minutes. Then he did something he had never done before. He searched his own name in the newspaper archives. The first result was an article dated October 18, 2003. FAMILY TRAGEDY AT ST. AGNES: MOTHER AND TWO CHILDREN MISSING AFTER FIRE. The article described a nurse named Kavita Mehra, who had worked at the hospital for eleven years. She had been on duty the night of the fire, along with her eight-year-old son, Arjun, and a younger girl named Meera. The official report stated that Kavita and Meera had died. Arjun had survived. But the article contained a photograph of the family. His mother stood between two children. One was him. The other was the girl from Room 309. Meera Sharma had never been her name. It was the name of another child. His sister's name was Meera Mehra. Arjun stared at the photograph. He remembered the house where they had lived. He remembered his mother's hands. He remembered a small girl who had followed him everywhere, who had stolen his sweets and hidden his shoes and fallen asleep holding his wrist. He remembered her laughing. He remembered her crying. He remembered the day she disappeared. But the memory was wrong. It had always been wrong. His sister had not drowned in a river. She had died in the hospital fire. And Arjun had been there. 6. What Happened at 2:13 The memories returned as Arjun drove toward St. Agnes. Rain hammered the windscreen. His mother had been a nurse on the night shift. She had brought him and Meera to the hospital because their father had left them alone for the evening, and she had no one to look after them. They had been told to stay in the staff room. But Meera had heard a child crying in the east wing. She had followed the sound. Arjun had gone after her. He found her outside Room 309, speaking to a little girl who stood inside a mirror. The girl had no reflection. She looked exactly like Meera. Then she looked at Arjun and smiled. “Do you want to play?” He had screamed. Meera had reached toward the mirror. The glass rippled like water. Something seized her wrist and pulled. Arjun grabbed her other hand. Their mother arrived seconds later and dragged them apart. But something had followed them out. It moved through the hospital like a shadow, entering mirrors, appearing in windows, and whispering in the voices of people who were dead. The staff tried to evacuate the building. The fire began at 2:13 a.m. Arjun remembered smoke filling the corridor. He remembered his mother pushing him toward the emergency exit. He remembered her turning back for Meera. He remembered the ceiling collapsing. Then darkness. When he woke, he was in a hospital bed. His mother was gone. His sister was gone. And every memory of that night had been erased. Dr. Malik told him his mother and sister had died in the fire. The police confirmed it. The hospital was closed, and Arjun was sent to live with relatives. But something had gone wrong. The thing in Room 309 had not remained inside the hospital. It had entered Arjun's memories. It had built a false life around his grief, turning the dead into people who could still be found, and making him forget the one truth that mattered. He had spent thirty-three years believing he was an ordinary man. He had spent seventeen years believing he was an only child. And for two months, he had worked as a security guard outside the place where his family had died. His phone rang. His mother's voice filled the car. “Arjun, please. Don't go back.” He pressed the phone to his ear. “Are you alive?” Silence. “Mum?” “I tried to save you.” “What happened to me?” “You came back for Meera.” “Did I die?” The line crackled. Then his mother whispered, “Not yet.” The call ended. Arjun drove faster. Because now he understood why the telephone rang at 2:13. It was not calling him into the hospital. It was calling him back to the moment his life had stopped. And he had eleven hours left to decide whether he wanted to remember. 7. The Mirror Room Arjun reached St. Agnes at 11:47 p.m. The gate stood open. Inside, the hospital was lit by hundreds of candles. They lined the corridors, the staircases, and the windowsills. Their flames burned blue, and none of them flickered. At the reception desk lay a telephone. Its receiver was missing. The phone began to ring. Arjun ignored it. He climbed the stairs to the third floor. The walls were no longer blackened by fire. The paint was fresh, the floors polished, and the lights glowed warmly overhead. Nurses moved through the corridors, carrying trays of medicine. Patients sat in beds, talking quietly. Nobody looked at him. At the end of the corridor stood Room 309. The door was open. Inside was a small girl sitting on the bed. She wore a pale hospital gown. Her hair was tied in two short braids, and she held a wooden rabbit in her lap. Arjun stopped breathing. “Meera?” She looked up. “Hello, Bhai.” He crossed the room and knelt beside her. She was eight years old. Exactly as he remembered her. “I thought you were dead.” “I am.” He began to cry. “I tried to find you.” “I know.” “I didn't remember.” “I know.” She reached out and touched his cheek. “You came back.” Arjun held her hand. “I'm taking you home.” Meera smiled sadly. “You can't.” “Why?” “Because you're the one who's missing.” He looked around the room. On the wall hung a mirror. It was tall and narrow, framed in dark wood. Arjun stood slowly. His reflection stood opposite him. But it wasn't wearing his clothes. It was wearing a hospital gown. Its face was pale, and a bandage covered its forehead. Behind it stood a woman in a nurse's uniform. His mother. Arjun turned. The room was empty. He looked back at the mirror. His mother raised one hand and pressed it against the glass. “Arjun,” she whispered. He approached. “Are you real?” She nodded. “I'm sorry.” “For what?” “For leaving you.” “You didn't leave me.” She began to cry. “I couldn't save you both.” The mirror trembled. Meera stood behind him. “Don't look at her,” she whispered. Arjun turned. “Why?” “Because she's not the one who's trapped.” He looked back at the mirror. His mother had disappeared. In her place stood a little girl with eleven shadows. Arjun stumbled backward. The girl in the mirror smiled. “Did you hear that?” she whispered. A child's voice came from inside the walls. Then another. Then dozens. All calling his name. The mirror cracked. Meera seized his hand. “Bhai, we have to go!” They ran toward the door. But the corridor beyond had vanished. Instead, they stood inside the east wing, surrounded by smoke and flames. People screamed. Nurses ran past them. A man pounded on a locked door. Arjun recognized him. Dr. Dev Malik. The doctor looked directly at Arjun. “I'm sorry,” he shouted. “I couldn't save her!” The ceiling collapsed. Meera pulled Arjun behind a pillar. The fire swept through the corridor. He could feel the heat on his face. “Meera, what do we do?” She looked at him. “You have to remember everything.” “I remember!” “No,” she said. “You remember what it wants you to remember.” The flames grew higher. She pressed the wooden rabbit into his hand. “Look at its eyes.” Arjun looked down. Two small black buttons stared back at him. One was cracked. He remembered the rabbit. He remembered buying it for Meera at a market when he was eight. He remembered giving it to her after she had cried because their father had shouted at her. He remembered telling her that nothing bad could happen while they were together. Then he remembered the mirror. The false girl. The hand reaching through the glass. And the terrible choice he had made. He had not been trying to save Meera. He had been trying to save himself. When the fire began, he had run toward the exit. Meera had followed. He had heard her calling. He had heard her fall. He had looked back. And for one moment, he had seen her lying beneath a fallen beam, her hand stretched toward him. He could have gone back. He could have tried to lift the beam. But he had been afraid. So he ran. His mother had gone back for Meera. She had never returned. Arjun had survived the fire. But he had not survived the truth. He had spent his entire life inventing a different ending. The hospital, the voices, the mirror, the girl who called herself Meera—all of it had been built around one unbearable memory. He had left his sister to die. Arjun fell to his knees. “I'm sorry,” he whispered. Meera knelt beside him. “I know.” “I should have come back.” “I know.” “I was afraid.” She took his hand. “So was I.” The flames went out. The corridor became silent. And the mirror stood waiting at the end of the hall. 8. The Last Patient Arjun approached the mirror. His reflection looked exhausted, older than he felt. Behind it stood the little girl with eleven shadows. “What are you?” he asked. The girl smiled. “I am the part of you that survived.” He shook his head. “No.” “I am the part that ran. The part that forgot. The part that built a world where you could be forgiven without ever having to ask.” Arjun stared at her. “Why did you bring me here?” “Because you were ready.” “Ready for what?” “To leave.” The girl placed her hand against the glass. The mirror rippled. Beyond it, Arjun saw a hospital bed. A man lay beneath white sheets, his skin pale, his eyes closed. He was thirty-three years old. It was him. A monitor beside the bed showed a slow, irregular heartbeat. His mother sat beside him, holding his hand. She looked older than he remembered, her face lined with grief. Meera stood at the foot of the bed. She was no longer eight years old. She was a young woman, perhaps twenty-five, wearing ordinary clothes. Her hair was longer, her face more mature, but her eyes were the same. Arjun stared. “That's impossible.” The girl in the mirror tilted her head. “Is it?” He turned to Meera. “Are you real?” She smiled. “I'm real enough.” “Did you survive the fire?” “Yes.” He stared at her. “But you were dead.” “I was badly burned. They thought I wouldn't survive, but Dr. Malik brought me back.” “What about Mum?” “She survived too.” Arjun's knees weakened. “Then why—” “Because you didn't.” The words were quiet. They did not need to be loud. The hospital room beyond the mirror became clearer. His mother was crying. Meera was holding a small photograph. Arjun recognized it. It was the picture of the family taken outside the hospital. His mother stood between two children. One was Meera. The other was him. But the boy's eyes were closed. The girl in the mirror whispered, “You died at 2:13 a.m. The fire took you before anyone could reach you. Your mother and sister survived, but they couldn't bear to leave you behind.” Arjun looked at his mother. She pressed his hand against her cheek. “I tried to bring you back,” she whispered, though the words seemed to come from inside his own head. “I tried everything.” The little girl in the mirror smiled. “And I gave them what they wanted.” Arjun understood. The false memories. The voices. The hospital that remained alive long after it had closed. The little girl who appeared in mirrors. It had all been an elaborate refuge, created from the grief of a child who had died and the love of a family who could not let him go. He had not been haunted by the dead. He had been held by them. For seventeen years, his mother and sister had returned to the hospital every night, hoping he might wake. Dr. Malik had tried to keep the illusion alive, believing that if Arjun remembered enough, he might find his way back. But something else had entered the dream. Something born from his guilt. The girl with eleven shadows. The thing that had learned to imitate love. It had no name because it had never been alive. It was the shape of every lie Arjun had told himself. And now it was time for him to leave. 9. The Choice The mirror began to crack. The hospital beyond it trembled. Arjun could hear the monitor slowing. Meera stepped toward him. “You can come home now.” He looked at her. “What if I don't?” “Then you'll stay here.” “With you?” She shook her head. “Not with me. With the thing that looks like me.” The little girl in the mirror smiled. “I can give you anything you want,” she whispered. “A childhood. A family. A future. You can live a thousand lives without ever remembering the fire.” Arjun looked at the mirror. He saw himself as a child, running through the hospital corridors. He saw his mother laughing in the kitchen. He saw Meera swinging from the apple tree. He saw birthdays, school mornings, ordinary afternoons that had never happened. A life he had never lived. A future that could never be his. The girl held out her hand. “Stay.” Arjun looked at Meera. “Will I see you again?” She nodded through her tears. “Someday.” “Will you forgive me?” She took his hand. “I forgave you a long time ago.” He began to cry. “I didn't deserve it.” “Love isn't a reward, Bhai.” The mirror shattered. The little girl screamed. For the first time, Arjun saw her without a reflection. She was nothing more than a dark space shaped like a child, a hole in the world where light could not exist. She reached for him. He stepped toward the light beyond the broken glass. The darkness seized his wrist. “Don't leave me!” it shrieked. Arjun looked back. For one terrible moment, he felt sorry for it. It had been born from his fear. It had spent seventeen years pretending to be someone he loved because it had never known anything else. But pity was not the same as surrender. “I'm sorry,” he whispered. Then he let go. The darkness collapsed. The hospital dissolved. And Arjun fell into the light. 10. The Surprise The first thing Arjun heard was a woman crying. The second was the steady beeping of a heart monitor. He opened his eyes. A white ceiling. A hospital bed. A nurse standing beside him. His mother was asleep in a chair, her head resting against the wall. She looked older than he remembered, with silver strands in her hair and deep lines around her mouth. Meera sat beside the bed, holding his hand. She looked up. For a moment, neither spoke. Then she laughed and cried at the same time. “Bhai?” Arjun tried to sit up. His body felt weak, as though he had been sleeping for years. “How long?” Meera covered her mouth. “Seventeen years.” He looked at her. She nodded. “You were in a coma. The doctors said you might never wake up.” Arjun turned toward his mother. She stirred, opened her eyes, and stared at him. Then she screamed. Not in fear. In disbelief. She threw herself into his arms, sobbing his name, kissing his forehead, his cheeks, his hands. Meera joined her. For a long time, the three of them held each other while the heart monitor beeped steadily beside the bed. Arjun had imagined this moment a thousand times. He had imagined coming home, apologizing, and asking for forgiveness. He had imagined his mother telling him that everything was all right. Now she was there. Meera was there. And he was alive. The doctor arrived and examined him. He asked questions about his memory, his vision, and his ability to move. Arjun answered as best he could. Then the doctor smiled. “It's a miracle.” Arjun looked toward the window. Outside, the sun was rising. For the first time in seventeen years, he felt the warmth of morning on his face. He had escaped the hospital. He had escaped the mirror. He had escaped the thing that had kept him trapped in his own guilt. He closed his eyes and whispered, “We're not alone.” His mother squeezed his hand. “No, darling,” she said. “You never were.” For three days, the family remained together. Arjun learned that Meera had grown up to become a doctor. His mother had retired from nursing. Dr. Malik had died years earlier, but he had left letters describing the night of the fire and the long years of Arjun's unconsciousness. Everything finally made sense. The voices. The hospital. The dreams. The girl in the mirror. All of it had been a desperate attempt by a dying mind to make peace with the past. On the fourth morning, Arjun woke before sunrise. His mother was asleep in the chair. Meera had gone to get coffee. The room was quiet. He turned toward the bedside table. A small wooden rabbit sat beside a glass of water. Its black button eyes stared at him. Arjun froze. He knew that rabbit. It had burned in the fire. He reached for it with trembling fingers. On its underside, written in faded ink, were four words. YOU LEFT ME BEHIND. The heart monitor began to beep faster. Arjun looked toward the mirror on the wardrobe door. His reflection sat motionless in the bed. But Arjun was standing. He stared. The reflection slowly lifted its head. Its eyes were black. Its mouth curved into a smile. Then the telephone rang. Once. Twice. Three times. Arjun backed away. The reflection raised one hand and pressed it against the glass. And from inside the mirror came a child's voice. “Bhai?” Arjun could not breathe. “Meera?” The reflection shook its head. “No.” It smiled wider. “Did you really think you were the one who woke up?” The room lights went out. The heart monitor flatlined. And somewhere in the hospital, at exactly 2:13 a.m., a telephone began to ring. The next morning, a nurse entered Room 309 to change the sheets. The bed was empty. The window was locked. The door was shut. On the bedside table lay a wooden rabbit, its black button eyes glistening in the morning light. Beside it was a photograph. Three people stood outside St. Agnes Hospital. A woman. A young girl. And a boy. The woman and the girl were smiling. The boy stood slightly behind them, his face pale, his eyes closed. On the back of the photograph, someone had written: PATIENT 12 — ARJUN MEHRA. STATUS: TRANSFERRED. DESTINATION: ROOM 309. The nurse stared at the photograph. Then she heard a telephone ringing inside the wall. She stepped backward. A little girl appeared in the mirror above the sink. She wore a pale hospital gown. She had eleven shadows. She lifted one hand and pressed it against the glass. Then she smiled at the nurse and whispered: “Don't worry.” A second face appeared behind her. A boy's face. Pale and motionless. His eyes were closed. The girl turned toward him. “See?” she whispered. “I told you we'd never be alone.” And from somewhere deep inside the hospital, a voice answered. “Not anymore.” THE END. ChatGPT is AI and can make mistakes.