Inside a small and gloomy room, an elderly woman around seventy-five years old sat beside a bed with trembling hands. Her eyes were swollen red from crying continuously, and tears kept falling down her wrinkled cheeks without any sign of stopping. Again and again, she dipped a cloth into cold water and carefully placed it on the burning forehead of the unconscious person lying on the bed. Every time she looked at his pale face, her heart shattered a little more. Her trembling gaze repeatedly drifted toward the picture of Lord Shiva hanging on the wall. Looking at the deity, she could no longer suppress the pain buried inside her heart. Her lips quivered as she cried helplessly, questioning fate itself for being so cruel to an innocent child. The room echoed with her sorrow as she continued to pray while tears streamed endlessly from her eyes. After speaking, she broke down once again and continued placing cold compresses on his forehead, desperately hoping that his fever would decrease. Meanwhile, the unconscious person slowly began regaining awareness. His eyelids twitched slightly before opening.

At first, everything appeared blurry as if a thick fog covered his vision. Strange sounds echoed faintly in his ears, and for several moments, he could not understand where he was. Gradually, the haze cleared, and his beautiful indigo ocean-blue eyes became focused. He stared silently at the ceiling above him, trying to understand his surroundings. It felt as though his mind was struggling to connect reality with memory. Then suddenly, he felt a familiar touch on his forehead. The warmth hidden beneath that gentle touch felt strangely comforting. Slowly turning his head toward the source, his eyes landed on the elderly woman sitting beside him. The moment he saw her face, his entire body froze. Shock spread across his features as disbelief filled his heart. It felt impossible. The woman sitting beside him was someone he never thought he would see again. His breathing became uneven as countless thoughts exploded inside his mind. The last thing he remembered was fire—raging flames devouring everything around him, unbearable heat consuming his body, and the suffocating feeling of death closing in from all sides.

He clearly remembered burning alive in that basement. He remembered his final moments. He remembered dying. Yet somehow he was here, alive, staring at a face he thought he had lost forever. Before he could understand anything, another cold compress touched his forehead, making him realize this was not an illusion. The person lying on the bed was none other than Rishabh Randhawa, and the elderly woman caring for him was his beloved grandmother.

"Dadi... yeh kaise ho sakta hai? Aap yahan kaise ho? Kya maine jo kuch dekha tha woh sirf ek sapna tha?"

(Dadi... how is this possible? How are you here? Was everything I saw just a dream?)

The moment his grandmother noticed that her youngest grandson had finally regained consciousness, she immediately pulled him into her arms. Holding him tightly against her chest, she cried even harder as though all the fear and pain she had been carrying inside her heart finally burst out. Her trembling hands lovingly stroked his hair while tears continued falling from her eyes.

"Kaise jallim log hain! Apne hi bete par zara sa bhi taras nahi aaya unhe! Aur tu bhi kitna bewakoof hai. Maine tujhe kitni baar kaha tha unke paas mat jaana, lekin tu meri baat kab sunta hai?"

(What kind of cruel people are they! They didn't feel even the slightest pity for their own son! And you are such a foolish child. How many times did I tell you not to go near them, but when have you ever listened to me?)

Rishabh remained completely stunned. His brain felt numb, unable to process everything happening around him. As he listened to his grandmother's words, memories slowly resurfaced inside his mind. Then suddenly, he realized something strange. His body felt much smaller and weaker than before. Looking down at his hands, he noticed they were not the hands of an adult but those of a young boy. His heart skipped a beat. Quickly, he looked around the room, and the moment his eyes landed on the calendar hanging nearby, his entire body stiffened. Shock flooded his face. The date displayed before him belonged to twelve years ago. Twelve years. He had somehow returned twelve years into the past. The realization struck him like lightning. This was the exact period when his biological mother, Smita, had locked him inside a dark room as punishment. For two entire days, he had remained trapped there without anyone caring whether he was alive or dead. Nobody checked on him. Nobody comforted him. Nobody even remembered him. The cruelest part was that Rishabh had always been terrified of darkness. His only mistake had been using one of his elder brothers' belongings without permission. He had merely been a child wanting to experience the same happiness other children enjoyed. It had been an automatic car that he did not know how to operate properly, and after accidentally damaging it, his elder brother had started crying.

Instead of understanding him, Smita had punished him by locking him inside that dark room. At that time, Rishabh was only thirteen years old. He had come to that house at the age of ten and barely stayed there for a year before being sent away to a hostel. Even when he returned home during vacations, nobody truly accepted him. Most people in that house did not even know his name. Some called him "that boy," while others mocked him for being skinny and undernourished.

The saddest truth was that even his own parents barely knew him. After all, they had abandoned him at his maternal grandparents' house just one month after his birth. They had not even bothered to perform his naming ceremony. The people who had given him a name and raised him with love were his grandparents. As all these memories flooded his mind, Rishabh finally understood the impossible truth. He had died in his previous life, and somehow fate had granted him another chance. He had been reborn and sent twelve years into the past. Back to the time when he was thirteen years old. Back to the beginning of all his suffering. Back to the moment before everything spiraled out of control. He remembered that during this period he had developed a terrible fever after being locked inside that room. Yet nobody from his family cared enough to look after him. Instead, his parents had gone to celebrate their younger daughter's birthday at a hotel while he suffered alone. At the same time, his grandmother had been at the hospital caring for his paralyzed grandfather, who had fallen ill even before Rishabh's birth. When Rishabh was still inside his mother's womb, many superstitious people had blamed him for his grandfather's condition. They called him unlucky, cursed, and inauspicious. Even before he opened his eyes to the world, people had already started treating him as a burden. The memories ignited something deep inside him. Slowly, his tiny hands clenched into fists. A cold determination appeared in his eyes. If fate had truly given him a second life, then he would never repeat the mistakes of his previous one. This time he would become so powerful that the entire world would acknowledge his existence. He would become a man before whom people would willingly bow their heads. A man whose name would command respect and admiration everywhere. This time he would take revenge for his death, for every humiliation, every betrayal, every injustice, and every ounce of pain forced upon him. Most importantly, he would protect the people he had failed to save before. As these thoughts filled his mind, he suddenly felt warm drops falling on his back. They were his grandmother's tears. Slowly raising his head, he looked at her tear-stained face. The cold determination inside him instantly softened. No matter how much pain he had suffered, this woman had always loved him unconditionally.

"Dadi, mat ro na. Jab aap roti ho toh mujhe bilkul achha nahi lagta. Aur waise bhi, rote waqt aap bahut badsoorat lagti ho."

(Dadi, don't cry. I don't like it when you cry. And besides, you look very ugly when you're crying.)

For a moment, his grandmother froze before letting out a tearful laugh. A warm smile appeared on her face despite the tears. She lovingly kissed his forehead and gently caressed his hair as though trying to reassure herself that he was truly awake and safe. The room, which had moments ago been filled with grief, now carried a faint warmth. After remaining silent for a while, Rishabh looked into her eyes with an unusual seriousness that did not belong to a thirteen-year-old child.

"Dadi... main yahan se jaana chahta hoon."

(Dadi... I want to leave this place.)