Chapter 1: A Second Chance in the Winter Fog

Pain. So much pain.

That raw ache throbbed through every bone in my body, burning like I’d been tossed from the last rickety seat of a DTC bus and slammed onto the biting cold of Delhi’s winter pavement.

Gasping, I jerked awake in bed, my hand flying to my neck. The phantom sting of a blade still lingered—sharp, unforgettable. For a long moment, I sat there, heart hammering so loudly I thought Maa would burst in from the next room. Sweat ran down my spine, cold as the December dawn, and the faded Virat Kohli poster on my wall fluttered with the chilly breeze sneaking in from the broken window latch.

Somewhere outside, a chaiwala’s bell rang out, his sing-song call mixing with the first distant azaan. Delhi was waking up, and so was I—reborn.

Still trembling, I fumbled beneath my pillow for my phone. My old Redmi vibrated in my palm, familiar and battered. The cracked screen lit up: 5:00 a.m., December 25th. I had been given another life.

A WhatsApp ping popped up—a single green tick. My chat wallpaper stared back at me: an old, faded selfie with Ananya, both of us grinning, her arm slung around my shoulders. Now, that image stung like salt in a wound.

I could almost smell the sharp tang of fog and the smoky bite of burning wood from the neighbour’s chulha outside. Today was the day—Ananya and I would be stopped by Kabir and his gang on our way to school.

Ananya would be dragged into the woods by Kabir, who would try to assault her.

In my last life, I fought for her—one against ten—only to be stabbed in the waist by Kabir, who fought like a coward.

While I bled on the ground, he smashed both my legs with a stick.

Ananya hid, trembling, too scared to even dial the police.

It was a kind classmate who finally called for help, summoning the police and an ambulance.

I landed in the ICU, battered beyond repair.

At eighteen, I became a cripple, told I’d never have children.

Afterwards, Kabir—already an adult—was convicted and sentenced to ten years in Tihar.

Ananya, untouched, sobbed in her parents’ arms. I thought her tears were for me, even tried to comfort her, foolishly telling her not to be sad.

Who could have guessed she cried for Kabir, the one sent to jail?

I never blamed her, convinced she was a victim too.

Later, Ananya soared into Bollywood. I became her manager, pushing her to the top. But when the spotlights shone, she turned on me—publicly accusing me of harassment, of controlling her life.

I was branded, humiliated, ruined.

In the end, a crazed fan stabbed me over and over, slitting my throat while she watched—her eyes full of hate.

“If it weren’t for you, how could Kabir have gone to jail!” she spat. “I want you to pay for my lost love with your life!”

I never imagined my thirty years as Rohan would end in a pool of blood, murdered twice over by love and betrayal.

I hated. I resented.

But God had eyes, it seemed, and gave me a second chance.

This time, I wouldn’t interfere. I wouldn’t throw myself into Ananya’s mess again.

Let fate deal with you, Ananya. I’ll watch from the sidelines, this time with eyes wide open.