Chapter 1

  The house stood like an unspoken memory—grand in structure, hollow in soul. A sprawling mansion built on old wealth, its halls were lined with antique chandeliers that had long since lost their luster. Dust clung to the velvet curtains, and silence wove itself into every corner. It was not the silence of peace, but of absence. The kind that lingers in the wake of something irreversibly lost.

  Arin sat on the living room couch, his eyes tracing the cracks on the ceiling. How long had it been since he last spoke to someone? Really spoke, without pleasantries, without obligation. He could not remember. His world had shrunk to the size of a phone screen, flickering with stories that were not his own.

  On the mantelpiece, framed photographs stood in a solemn row. His mother. Forever frozen in her prime, her gentle eyes capturing a warmth he had never known. She had died soon after he was born. To him, she was an image, a name spoken in hushed voices, a presence he had to convince himself once existed. He would sit before her photograph for hours, searching her face for familiarity, for some proof that a mother’s love had once touched his life.

  And then there was his father—a man whose presence loomed over his childhood like a shadow cast by a dimming flame. Once a sharp-witted businessman, he had fallen into the abyss of alcohol, his mind fracturing under its weight. Arin remembered the distant scent of whiskey, the hollow laughter that never quite reached his father’s eyes, the slow unravelling that led to the asylum gates swallowing him whole.

  Arin barely remembered his touch, his voice. Only the silence he left behind.

  Outside, the world moved without him. The neighbours whispered, their voices slipping through the cracks in the walls.

  "He just sits there all day, watching movies. Doesn’t even step out to work."

  "Rich people and their madness. Spoilt child he is!"

  "Did you hear? His father died in an asylum. Maybe it runs in the blood."

  He had heard it all before. Pity laced with curiosity, fear disguised as concern. But he never responded. They didn’t understand. How could they?

  Movies weren’t just an escape. They were his oxygen.

  For those three hours, the weight of his existence lifted. He could be someone else, somewhere else. He could feel things he wasn’t sure he was capable of feeling anymore. He could fall in love, he could chase dreams, he could lose, he could win—things that reality had never granted him.

  The house groaned with the wind as night stretched its arms over the city. Arin unlocked his phone, the glow illuminating his face in the dim room. Another film. Another escape.

  Somewhere in the depths of his mind, a voice whispered—a voice that sounded disturbingly like his father’s.

  "Reality is a cruel thing to run from, son. Sooner or later, it will catch you."

  But Arin simply pressed play.

  Reality could wait.

  Chapter 2

  The soft ticking of the wall clock filled the sterile room, marking time in a way that felt both mundane and cruel. The air smelled faintly of old paper and peppermint, the kind of scent that clung to therapy rooms, where words carried more weight than the furniture itself.

  Arin sat across from Dr. Elijah Varner, a man in his sixties with sharp, perceptive eyes that had seen too many broken minds trying to mend themselves. The doctor sat in his high-backed chair, his fingers intertwined, watching Arin as if trying to read the invisible script behind his silence.

  The silence stretched.

  Then, finally, Dr. Varner spoke, his voice steady, measured. "Tell me, Arin. When was the last time you felt something good about life?"

  A faint smile tugged at Arin’s lips. Not out of amusement, but out of habit. It was the kind of question that didn’t have an answer—not one that made sense, at least.

  "What do you mean by good, Doc?" he asked, leaning back slightly.

  The doctor sighed, tilting his head. "Something worthy that wasn’t borrowed. Something that came from within you- may be a faint whisper that told you that your life is great."

  Arin’s fingers tapped idly on the armrest. He could feel the weight of the doctor’s gaze, but his own eyes drifted toward the bookshelf behind him, where old medical journals and psychology books lined the wooden shelves.

  "I don’t know," he admitted.

  Dr. Varner leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. "That’s what worries me, Arin."

  The Diagnosis of a Man Who Feels Nothing-------------------------

  "You have a rare condition," the doctor had once told him, during their earliest sessions.

  "A condition?" Arin had scoffed. "Like a disease?"

  "Not in the way you think."

  Dr. Varner had exhaled, choosing his words carefully. "Your mind struggles to create emotions on its own. Most people experience joy, sorrow, love, anger... organically. But you? You don’t generate them naturally. You absorb them. Like a mirror reflecting what it sees. And that I believe, is due to your past trauma."

  Arin had frowned at that. "That sounds ridiculous."

  "Does it?" The doctor’s voice had remained steady. "Tell me, have you ever felt happiness without a reason? Have you ever been sad without something triggering it? Think about it, Arin. Every emotion you feel—it’s second-hand."

  Arin had stared at him that day, a strange, unsettling realization settling in his chest. And now, in this therapy room once again, the weight of those words still lingered.

  --------------------------------------------

  Dr. Varner broke the silence. "Movies, Arin. That’s why they mean so much to you, don’t they?"

  Arin’s lips parted slightly, but he didn’t respond.

  The doctor continued, his voice quieter this time. "They let you feel. They let you live emotions you wouldn’t otherwise experience. When you watch a tragedy, you grieve. When you watch love unfold, you feel its warmth. When you see victory, you taste triumph." He paused. "But those emotions—they’re not yours, are they?"

  Arin swallowed. He hated how much truth there was in those words.

  "Does it matter?" he finally asked.

  Dr. Varner considered him for a long moment before nodding. "Maybe not."

  He leaned back, folding his hands in his lap. "For you, cinema is not just entertainment, Arin. It’s a lifeline, an escape. Without it, you might not even feel alive."

  The words hung in the air, heavy and unshakable.

  Arin looked away, his gaze unfocused. So what if it’s true?

  So what if every emotion he had ever felt belonged to someone else first? At least, in those three hours of flickering light and sound, he could believe.

  And wasn’t that enough?

  Chapter 3

  Karan had seen a lot of ridiculous things in life. But watching his best friend beg for a movie like a kid pleading for candy at a supermarket? That was a new low.

  "Karan, please, just one last movie!" Arin’s voice was thick with desperation, as if his very survival depended on this.

  Karan, who had just parked his scooter outside Arin’s house, let out a long, suffering sigh. He took off his helmet, ran a hand through his already-messy hair, and shot Arin a deadpan look. "You said that about the last ten thrillers, Arin. And yet, here we are."

  Arin waved a dismissive hand, as if that was just an irrelevant technicality.

  "No, no, but this one is different!" he insisted. "It’s THE thriller of the decade! The reviews are excellent."

  Karan folded his arms, unimpressed. "You also said that about ‘Shadow Conspiracy’ last week."

  "Okay, fine. I got carried away with that one."

  "And ‘Whispers in the Fog’ before that."

  "The cinematography was solid!"

  "And ‘The Last Deception’?"

  Arin hesitated. "…Okay, that was a disaster. But this—this is a masterpiece!" He grabbed Karan’s arm like a man clutching a lottery ticket. "It’s got insane plot twists, mind-blowing suspense! You won’t regret it!"

  Karan narrowed his eyes. "Arin, if I had a dollar for every time you said that, I’d be richer than you."

  ----------------------------------------------

  Karan had known Arin since they were kids. Back then, Arin had been… normal. Or at least, not a human version of IMDb with an addiction problem.

  He understood why Arin clung to movies—he really did. But after spending countless nights trapped in theatres watching twist after twist unravel while Arin practically lived off popcorn and plot theories, Karan was tired.

  "Why do I have to go?" Karan groaned, rubbing his temples.

  "Because you're my best friend!" Arin said dramatically.

  "No, no, no. Best friends don’t force each other into these situations. This is abuse."

  Arin clasped his hands together in mock prayer. "Karan, please. Who else will go with me? My neighbours think I’m a lunatic, and my father is… well, absent."

  Karan sighed. Damn it. That last bit hit too close to home.

  He threw his helmet onto the scooter seat and groaned. "Fine. But you’re paying for the tickets AND my dinner. AND I’m picking the next movie we watch."

  Arin grinned, victory lighting up his face as if he’d just cracked a major case.

  "Done!"

  Karan muttered under his breath as they walked toward the car, "Watch this be another three hours of my life I’ll never get back."

  Arin, already pulling up showtimes on his phone, pretended not to hear.

  Chapter 4

  The night was restless.

  Dark clouds curled over the city like a beast about to strike, and rain lashed against the glass walls of the grand Regal Royale Theatre, turning the outside world into a blurred watercolour of flickering streetlights and rushing figures. The occasional growl of thunder rolled through the air, sending ripples across the puddles forming on the pavement.

  Inside, the golden glow of the theatre lobby offered a stark contrast to the storm raging beyond its glass doors. A faint scent of buttered popcorn hung in the air, blending with the dull murmur of hushed conversations and the distant melody of an old piano playing over the speakers.

  Arin, standing at the counter, drummed his fingers against the polished wood. “One large popcorn. Extra butter.”

  Karan, standing beside him, groaned. “You and your obsession with butter. You’ll die of a heart attack before you get to the climax of this so-called ‘thriller of the decade.’”

  Arin didn’t respond. He was distracted.

  His gaze had locked onto a figure sitting alone in the last row of the dimly lit theatre hall.

  She wore a flowing red dress, the deep crimson standing out against the plush velvet seats. Her long, dark hair cascaded over her shoulders, her face partially hidden in the dim glow of the theatre lights. She wasn’t watching the trailers; instead, she stared at the screen with an expression that was... distant. As if her mind was lost somewhere far beyond this place, beyond this moment.

  A strange pull tightened in Arin’s chest.

  There was something about her—something eerily familiar. His fingers tightened around the warm popcorn bag. Where had he seen her before?

  She must have felt his gaze. Slowly, she turned her head, her deep eyes meeting his.

  And for the briefest second, Arin’s world lurched.

  A sharp, unexplainable chill ran down his spine, as if some long-forgotten memory had stirred awake—but there was nothing to recall. Nothing, and yet... everything.

  The woman didn’t smile. Didn’t acknowledge him beyond that lingering stare. Just a fleeting moment of connection—one that left behind a whisper of something unspoken.

  Then, as if deciding it wasn’t worth holding on to, she turned away.

  Arin exhaled, realizing he had been holding his breath.

  “Dude, what are you staring at?” Karan’s voice snapped him back.

  Arin blinked, shaking his head. “Nothing. Just... thought I saw someone strange.”

  Karan followed his gaze toward the back row but shrugged. “Great. Now you’re making things up just like that. This is what happens when you spend half your life in front of a screen.”

  Arin forced a chuckle, but his mind was elsewhere. Who was she? And, what was so strange about her?

  Chapter 5

  The lights dimmed. The screen flickered. The thriller of the decade had begun.

  Arin leaned back in his seat, a slow thrill coursing through him. This was his escape. The moment when everything else—his loneliness, his past, his empty house—faded into the shadows, swallowed by the brilliance of cinema.

  But tonight… something felt off. He could not understand it at first but gradually, he did.

  As the opening sequence unfolded, a creeping sense of strangeness settled into his bones.

  A Story Too Familiar

  The film opened with a man, alone in a grand but empty house. A house that looked uncomfortably similar to Arin’s.

  The camera panned to a framed photograph—a woman’s face smiling gently- a mother.

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  Arin’s grip tightened on the armrest. “What…?”

  The protagonist in the film sat in a dark room, his eyes fixated on a screen, drowning in stories. Escaping reality through fiction.

  Arin’s breath caught.

  Karan, beside him, chuckled. “Damn, this guy kind of reminds me of—”

  “Shut up.” Arin’s voice was barely a whisper. There was evidently anger upon his face.

  The movie continued nevertheless. The protagonist, alone and restless, convinced his reluctant best friend to accompany him to a late-night screening of a mystery thriller.

  A flicker of cold terror slid down Arin’s spine. This wasn’t just a movie. This was his own life, being shown upon the screen. Was it Karan’s idea by any chance? - Arin knew that he had a few relatives who were filmmakers.

  Frame by frame. Scene by scene. And then…

  The protagonist spotted a woman in a red dress.

  No. No, no, no. How could that be possible? He had seen her just a few while ago.

  Arin’s pulse pounded. He turned his head, almost afraid of what he’d see.

  The woman from the back row—the one who had locked eyes with him before the movie started—was gone.

  Thunder cracked outside, the storm raging stronger.

  Onscreen, the protagonist followed the woman into a dimly lit alley. The eerie background score pulsed with tension. And then—a knife flashed. Blood splattered against the cold pavement.

  A murder!

  Arin’s breath hitched. A sense of nausea curled in his stomach. He glanced at Karan, but his friend was too absorbed in the movie, unaware of the silent storm inside Arin’s mind.

  Something was terribly wrong. He had to leave. Just as he reached for Karan’s sleeve, the screen went black.

  A sudden power cut.

  Gasps and murmurs spread through the theatre. The storm outside had knocked out the electricity. The room was swallowed by darkness.

  And then—

  A blood-curdling scream pierced the silence. High-pitched. Terrified. Real. It came from somewhere inside the theatre.

  A shiver shot down Arin’s spine. His fingers gripped the seat.

  Then, just as suddenly— The lights flickered back on.

  And someone in the audience was missing.

  Chapter 6

  The moment the lights flickered back, the theatre was no longer just a theatre.

  It was a crime scene.

  A man lay slumped in his seat, motionless, his head tilted unnaturally to one side. A deep red stain spread across his crisp white shirt, a knife buried in his chest. The blood had pooled onto the carpet beneath him, dark and glistening under the flickering overhead lights.

  Screams erupted from everywhere.

  People leaped from their seats, panic spreading like wildfire. Someone shoved past Arin, nearly knocking him over. A woman in the front row shrieked, clutching her child. Someone else was shouting for help.

  But Arin… He didn’t move.

  His eyes were fixed on the seat where the woman in the red dress had been sitting.

  Empty still.

  She was gone.

  His pulse thundered in his ears. The events of the film, the murder in the alley, the eerie familiarity—it all collided in his mind, sending him into a spiral of disorientation.

  Karan grabbed his wrist. “Arin, what the hell?! Let’s go!”

  Arin didn’t respond. He was still staring at the empty seat.

  Karan shook him hard. “Snap out of it! Someone just got killed, and you’re standing here like a statue? We have to move before the cops lock this place down!”

  Before Arin could process it, Karan yanked him hard, dragging him through the panicked crowd. People shoved, ran, stumbled over seats—some trying to call the police, others desperately pushing toward the exit.

  Arin’s mind was a blur. The film. The storm. The woman in red. The murder.

  As they stumbled into the crowded hallway, Arin turned back for one last glance. His breath caught.

  A single, crumpled movie ticket lay abandoned on the floor.

  Row L. Seat 13.

  The very seat where the dead man now sat.

  His own seat.

  Arin was supposed to be the one sitting there. But they had swapped places before the screening began.

  Chapter 7

  Arin hadn’t slept the whole night.

  He sat at his desk, the dim glow of his laptop screen casting eerie shadows on the wall. His fingers tapped restlessly on the wooden surface, his mind replaying last night’s events over and over again. The storm. The film. The woman in red. The murder.

  His phone vibrated.

  A news alert. "Man Found Dead in Regal Theatre—Police Investigate Mysterious Murder During Film Screening."

  His throat went dry. He clicked on the article.

  The report was straightforward: The victim was identified as Rahul Mehta, a 38-year-old businessman. No murder weapon was found. No suspects. No clear motive.

  The theatre’s CCTV footage was being examined.

  And then—one sentence made his blood turn ice-cold.

  "Oddly, there is no CCTV evidence of any woman in a red dress ever entering or exiting the cinema hall. But people at the counter have reported her presence."

  Arin froze. His breath came shallow. No records? Impossible. He had seen her and remembered her face well.

  By noon, Arin had already seen the movie's name trending online. Discussions flooded social media—"A murder during a mystery thriller? Feels scripted. What do the filmmaker’s have to say? A deeply thought conspiracy, or a great political agenda?"

  People debated theories, twisted the crime into an urban legend.

  But Arin wasn’t just reading. He was searching for answers. Every online forum, every photo from the crime scene, every eyewitness account. Nothing.

  And yet, he could still see her in his mind—the deep red dress, the sorrow in her eyes.

  Who was she?

  That evening, Karan barged into his apartment, looking annoyed. "Dude, why aren’t you picking up my calls?"

  Arin didn’t look up. His laptop screen was open to the theatre’s website. He had gone through the entire guest list, ticket purchases, even employees working that night. No trace of her.

  Karan sighed. "Don’t tell me you’re still thinking about that woman."

  Arin’s voice was hoarse. "She was there, Karan. I saw her."

  Karan threw up his hands. "So did I! But people are saying she doesn’t exist! Maybe we just—misremembered. There were so many people in the hall. May be we saw someone else."

  Arin’s head snapped up. "You saw her too?"

  Karan hesitated. "I mean… I think so? The storm, the dark lighting—I don’t know, man. Maybe I imagined her because you pointed her out. My brain was half-fried dealing with your movie addiction."

  Arin’s fingers clenched.

  Chapter 8

  The cinema hall stood before him, unchanged, yet entirely different.

  Arin stepped inside, his footsteps echoing in the near-empty lobby. The faint scent of buttered popcorn lingered in the air, the flickering neon posters advertising films he barely noticed. His mind raced.

  The woman in red and the murder and the missing CCTV records. He couldn’t rest until he found out everything. And so, it made him come right up to the Regal Theatre to find out exactly what had happened that stormy night within its four walls.

  The man at the counter looked at Arin with a bored expression. “Another ticket, sir? You can try out- The Inception. It has been re-released at the theatres and its shows are nearly housefull.”

  Arin’s voice came out hoarse. “No. I—I wanted to ask about the night of the murder.”

  The ticket seller blinked.

  Then, in a flat, disinterested voice—"Oh. That. The police already asked us everything. The cameras weren’t working properly that night. Power fluctuations.”

  Arin swallowed. "Right. But I was here that night… with a friend. And I saw-"

  The ticket seller frowned slightly. “Sir, you came alone that night. You always come alone.”

  The air around Arin shifted.

  His skin went cold. His heart pounded violently against his ribs.

  He forced a dry chuckle. "No, that’s wrong. I came with Karan—tall guy, glasses, always annoyed at me for watching too many movies. We were sitting together. I come usually with him. You’ve seen him. You must have forgotten.”

  The ticket seller gave him a blank stare. "I remember you, sir, very well. How can I forget our regular customer? But believe me, you came alone that night. You had the ticket of Row L, Seat 13.”

  Arin stumbled back a step. His vision blurred.

  Seat 13! The same seat where the murdered man had been found.

  No. No, this wasn’t right. His fingers fumbled for his phone. He dialled Karan’s number, pressing the phone against his ear.

  One ring. Two rings. Three.

  No response.

  He tried again. Nothing.

  His breath came in shallow gasps. He opened his chat and call histories. Arin’s messages were there.

  But… the last reply from Karan was years ago. No further calls. No texts. No proof.

  His mind reeled in confusion.

  Chapter 9

  Arin’s heart pounded as he stood outside Karan’s house. The air felt heavier, the walls of the familiar home strangely distant—as if he were looking at them through a fog.

  His hands trembled as he rang the doorbell.

  A few seconds later, the door creaked open.

  Karan’s mother stood before him, wrapped in a simple shawl, her face carrying the gentle marks of age. Her eyes softened in recognition. “Arin, dear… what are you doing here so late?”

  A lump formed in his throat.

  "Aunty… is Karan home? I really need to talk to him. He’s not answering my calls."

  For a moment, there was silence. Then—her brows furrowed, a confused sadness settling into her features.

  “Arin… what are you talking about?”

  His stomach twisted.

  She stared at him, searching his face as if trying to understand if he was joking. Then, in a soft, almost broken voice—

  “Karan… he died five years ago.”

  The world beneath him tilted. His ears rang. His vision blurred.

  No. No, no, no—this couldn’t be real.

  He let out a shaky laugh. “Aunty, what? That’s… that’s not possible. I was just with him! We went to the movies together! The theatre murder—he was with me!"

  Her lips trembled. "Arin… you were there when we lit the pyre."

  A memory slammed into him like a tidal wave. The sharp scent of burning wood. A garlanded photograph. His own hands, cold, trembling, lighting a small flame.

  Karan’s funeral! Five years ago!

  He staggered back. His mind had erased the grief.

  Had he been so alone, so lost in his world of films, that he had conjured Karan back into existence?

  The sky above him seemed to warp.

  Chapter 10

  Arin stumbled into his house, his mind spiralling through memories. The walls seemed to close in, the silence suffocating. Karan was gone. Had been for years.

  And yet, he had felt him—laughed with him, argued with him, dragged him to the movie theatre.

  If Karan was a fragment of his mind… then what about her? The woman in red.

  That night had felt like something out of a dream, a stormy mirage stitched together from flickering reels of memory. But she had been real. Hadn’t she?

  Something inside him still whispered: Look deeper and you’ll get all the answers.

  He tore through his house like a man possessed. Drawers clattered open. Old books, albums, dust-covered letters, forgotten heirlooms spilled onto the floor.

  Then, buried beneath a pile of his father’s belongings—a photograph.

  His breath caught. A woman in a red dress! Beautiful. Poised. Her eyes carried a sadness he couldn’t place. The same eyes he had seen in the theatre that night.

  His hands trembled as he turned the photo over. A faded note, written in his father’s handwriting—

  "The love of my life. The one I failed to save."

  The air left his lungs. It was her. The woman in red… His very own mother. Younger. Alive. Frozen in time.

  She had never been in the theatre that night. She had been inside him all along—a projection of his mind, a subconscious whisper, trying to tell him something. A forgotten grief, resurfacing in a way his fractured psyche could finally understand.

  Arin’s knees buckled. The world around him blurred, as a single question clawed its way to the surface—What else had his mind been hiding from him?

  Chapter 11

  The rain lashed against Arin’s face as he sprinted through the empty streets, heart pounding, mind unravelling. The theatre—it still held all the answers.

  He needed to see it. One last time. And then he promised himself, he would never go there.

  When he reached the building, a cold chill ran down his spine.

  The neon signs were dark. The entrance, coated in dust. The posters on the walls were not of new releases—but faded films from decades ago.

  Arin’s breath hitched. The place looked abandoned. As if it had been closed for years. Yet, he had been here a few nights… hadn’t he?

  He had seen the film. Heard the scream. Witnessed the murder. Hadn’t he?

  A shadow moved inside. An old man, sitting behind the counter, hunched over, wiping dust off his glasses. His weary eyes lifted, and a strange look crossed his face.

  “You again? After so many years?”

  Arin’s blood ran cold. “…Again?”

  The man gave a knowing chuckle. “You used to come here as a kid. With your father.”

  “Since when was this hall closed?” Arin asked with inquisitiveness still painting his eyes.

  “It’s been years. A murder had taken place in this theatre after which it was shut down.”

  Arin felt the world tilt. The ‘murder’ that night—The ‘storm’—The ‘woman in red’—None of it was real.

  The theatre had shut down long ago.

  Arin stumbled back, gasping for air. His mind flashed back—Karan's funeral. The whispers, the mourning. He had buried his best friend. He had just… forgotten everything. Were sorrow and helplessness the causes of his illusions?

  The truth hit him like a freight train. He had been living inside a fragmented mind. A world stitched together by his own delusions. A desperate attempt to escape reality.

  Dizzy, suffocating, he stumbled into the old restroom. A cracked mirror stood before him.

  His reflection flickered. For a second, it wasn’t his face staring back—

  But a man with hollow, drunken eyes. His father!

  The past and present collapsed into one. He realized that he had never escaped his father’s fate.

  The same madness that had consumed his father had taken root inside him. All these years, he thought cinema was his redemption. But it had been his prison.

  A beautiful, flickering world where he could hide. But no reel could play forever. And now, the film had finally reached its end. But Arin was still the prisoner of his own mind.

  Chapter 12

  Arin stood frozen outside the abandoned theatre, the rain drenching him, washing away the remnants of his shattering world. His body shook—not from the cold, but from the terrifying, beautiful realizations.

  His laughter broke the silence—soft at first, then rising, cracking, twisting into something raw. It was the laughter of a man who had lost everything, perhaps even himself.

  He wiped his face, unsure if the wetness was rain or tears.

  That’s when he heard it.

  The low rumble of an approaching taxi.

  The yellow taxi rolled to a stop beside him. The driver, a middle-aged man with tired eyes, leaned out. “Where to, sir?” The man asked in a harsh tone.

  Arin blinked at him, his own reflection barely visible in the rain-slicked windshield. A strange smile curled on his lips.

  “Strange things are happening with me.” He exhaled, his voice eerily calm. “Can you please drive me home? 132 A, Simon Street.”

  The driver hesitated, then nodded in agreement. Without a word, Arin stepped forward. The door creaked open—And the taxi pulled away into the misty night.

  The camera (in a cinematic sense) lingers. The rain falls harder, the neon reflections shimmering on the wet pavement.

  The taxi drives down the lonely road, its headlights piercing through the fog.

  Then, the camera pans out—

  And the back seat is empty.

  No sign of Arin.

  Just the driver, staring ahead, unaware.

  The taxi disappears into the distance, swallowed by the city’s oblivion.

  Did Arin ever exist? Or, was he just another fading character in a forgotten film— A lost soul trapped between the frames of fiction and reality—Or merely a story of such countless Arins imprisoned in the cages of their own mind, waiting for its final scene to cut to black?

  FADE OUT.