The old neighborhood felt eerily foreign.

Ishan stood in front of the rusted iron gate, staring at the run-down building that was supposed to be his childhood home. The walls were cracked, the paint peeling, and the windows coated in dust. It looked abandoned, lifeless—like it had been untouched for years.

Yet, his heart pounded as if something inside remembered.

He hesitated before pushing the gate open. The metal screeched in protest. The courtyard was overgrown with weeds, littered with dry leaves and debris. His footsteps echoed against the emptiness as he walked up the familiar yet unfamiliar stone steps to the front door.

Reaching out, he pressed his palm against the wooden door. Cold. Rough. His breathing grew uneven as he tried to summon even a fragment of memory—anything that would tell him he had once lived here.

Nothing.

Gritting his teeth, he tried the doorknob, but it wouldn’t budge. Locked.

He stepped back, scanning the area. The street was quiet, only a few distant figures moving in the shadows.

“Excuse me,” he called out to an elderly woman sitting on a stool outside a nearby shop. “Do you know who owns this house?”

The woman squinted at him, her wrinkled face creasing further in thought. “That place?” She scoffed. “Been empty for years, boy. No one lives there.”

Ishan’s fingers curled into fists. That wasn’t possible.

“I—I used to live here,” he pressed. “Five years ago.”

The woman frowned, shaking her head. “No, you didn’t.”

His stomach dropped. “What?”

She waved a hand dismissively. “I’ve been here for over two decades. No one named Ishan ever lived in that house.”

Ishan staggered back, his pulse roaring in his ears. His world spun as her words sank in.

No one?

He felt a cold sweat forming at the back of his neck.

If he never lived here…

Then where had he come from?

----

Ishan’s hands trembled as he clutched his phone, staring at the old house that was supposed to be his childhood home. The landlady’s words rang in his ears.

"No one named Ishan ever lived there."

It didn't make sense. He remembered—or at least, he thought he did. The flashes of this house in his dreams, the smell of old wood, the sound of rain hitting the roof… Were they all fake?

Desperate, he turned to the other neighbors, hoping someone would remember him.

Across the street, a fruit vendor arranged his apples, pausing when Ishan approached. "Sir, can I ask you something?" Ishan's voice was steady, but his grip on reality was starting to crack.

The vendor nodded.

"Do you remember the family who lived in that house five years ago?" Ishan pointed at the abandoned building. "Do you remember me?"

The vendor gave the house a long look, then turned back to Ishan, shaking his head. "That house has been empty for years, sahib. Since before my shop opened."

Ishan’s stomach churned. “That’s not possible. I lived there. Five years ago, I used to come here to buy fruits.”

The vendor frowned, studying Ishan as if trying to place his face. “I’ve never seen you before.”

His chest tightened. He turned to an elderly man sitting on a wooden bench near the corner. “Sir? Do you know anything?”

The old man scratched his chin. “That house? Abandoned. It’s been locked up for as long as I can remember.”

Ishan’s head throbbed. “But someone must have lived there before! Who owned it? Who stayed there?”

The old man shrugged. "No idea, beta. If you’re looking for someone, maybe check the city records."

A cold shiver ran down Ishan’s spine.

No one knew him.

No one remembered him.

It was as if he had never existed in this place at all.

----

Ishan stumbled away from the neighbors, his breath coming in short gasps. His hands were ice-cold despite the warm afternoon sun. This is impossible. If no one remembered him, then where had he lived?

Feeling lightheaded, he walked toward the rusted gate of the abandoned house. The lock was heavy, thick with rust, but something told him this place held answers. He pressed his hand against the metal, feeling an odd sense of déjà vu.

Then, something crinkled under his shoe.

Frowning, he stepped back and spotted a faded piece of paper half-buried in the dirt. It looked old, edges curled and worn, yet the ink was still visible.

A restaurant receipt.

Ishan bent down and picked it up carefully. The name at the top read "Savera Diner", a small eatery he had no memory of visiting. The date was from exactly five years ago—just before his memories began.

His heartbeat quickened as his eyes scanned the faded ink. The order was simple: Masala chai, butter toast, and one extra spoon of sugar.

Something about it felt familiar. His fingers traced the handwriting at the bottom, a note scrawled hastily in blue ink.

“If you forget, find me.”

Ishan’s breath hitched. The handwriting—he recognized it.

It was his own.

----

Ishan sat in Mayank’s cramped apartment, staring at the receipt as if it would start speaking. His fingers trembled as he traced the words he’d written years ago. If you forget, find me.

But who was "me"?

Mayank sat across from him, furiously typing on his laptop. His usual confidence was replaced with irritation, his sharp gaze fixed on the screen.

“This doesn’t make sense,” Mayank muttered, tapping aggressively. “I’m trying to pull up old residency records, past transactions, even school enrollments, but every record of you before five years ago is gone. It’s like you never existed.”

Ishan swallowed hard. “That’s impossible.”

“No, it’s deliberate.” Mayank turned the laptop toward him, showing error messages and restricted access notifications. “Whoever did this didn’t just erase your past—they made sure no one could ever find it again.”

Ishan stared at the screen, his stomach twisting. “But why would someone do that to me?”

Mayank leaned back, rubbing his temples. “That’s what we need to find out. And if they went through the trouble of wiping out your history, then someone doesn’t want you remembering.”

Ishan clenched the receipt tightly. He had written this note to himself for a reason. But what had he been trying to warn himself about?

And more importantly—what had he forgotten?

-----

Ishan stepped out of Mayank’s apartment, his head spinning. The cold night air did little to clear his thoughts. He kept replaying Mayank’s words: someone doesn’t want you remembering.

But who? And why?

The streets were quieter than usual, a thick fog rolling in, distorting the glow of streetlights. Ishan tightened his coat around himself, gripping the old restaurant receipt in his pocket. It felt like the only proof that his past wasn’t just a fabricated lie.

As he walked toward the main road, a strange sensation prickled at the back of his neck. The unmistakable feeling of being watched.

He turned sharply—nothing. Just the empty street and a few distant figures heading in the opposite direction.

Calm down, Ishan. He exhaled, trying to shake off the paranoia. You’re just on edge because of everything happening.

He quickened his pace, but the feeling didn’t leave. Instead, it grew stronger. Every step he took, the sensation followed, like an invisible presence pressing against his back.

Then, from the corner of his eye, he caught movement. A shadow—too quick to be a trick of the fog—disappearing into an alleyway.

His breath hitched.

He wasn’t imagining it. Someone was following him.

Ishan’s heart pounded as he debated what to do. Confronting them was reckless, but ignoring this might be worse.

Summoning his courage, he turned into the alleyway.

“Who’s there?” His voice was steadier than he felt.

Silence.

The alley stretched out in eerie stillness, a dead end at the far end. No footsteps, no rustling. Just the distant hum of traffic.

But Ishan knew what he saw.

Or rather, who he saw.

His blood ran cold. The figure had been watching him. They wanted him to know they were there.

And then they had vanished—without a trace.

-----

Mayank’s fingers flew over the keyboard, his screen filled with scrolling code. His brows were furrowed in concentration, his mind racing faster than the data unraveling before him. It had taken hours, but he was finally inside.

“I got something,” he muttered, eyes locked onto the screen.

Ishan, who had been pacing behind him, rushed to his side. “What did you find?”

Mayank clicked through several decrypted files. “Emails. Some were forcefully deleted, but I managed to recover fragments.” He pulled up a string of messages, their contents appearing in disjointed pieces.

Ishan leaned in, his breath hitching as he read the texts:

> Unknown Sender: You need to leave. He’s not who you think he is. Ishan Verma: Who are you? What do you mean? Unknown Sender: They erased everything. If you don’t believe me, check the records yourself.

Ishan swallowed hard, his heart pounding. “Who sent these?”

“That’s the problem,” Mayank said, rubbing his temples. “Whoever it was, their digital footprint is gone. Not just deleted—wiped clean.”

Ishan clenched his fists. “So they were warning me. But about what? Or… who?”

Mayank exhaled, his expression dark. “That’s what we need to find out.”

-----

Mayank’s fingers drummed against the desk, frustration etched into every movement. He had spent hours trying to track the sender, but every lead led to a dead end.

“This isn’t normal,” he muttered. “Even if someone deletes their digital footprint, there’s always something left. A name, an IP address—something. But here? Nothing.”

Ishan sat beside him, staring at the recovered messages. The words felt like whispers from a past he couldn’t remember. “There has to be a way,” he said, voice tight. “Whoever sent these emails knew something about me—something even I don’t.”

Mayank sighed, pulling up government databases. “Let’s check official records again. Maybe we missed something.”

He typed in Ishan’s name. The usual details popped up—his ID number, his recent employment history, his legal documents. But when Mayank tried to dig deeper, an error message flashed on the screen.

Access Denied. Restricted File.

Mayank frowned. “That’s weird. Your basic records are fine, but when I try to look into anything older than five years, it’s blocked.”

Ishan’s pulse quickened. “Blocked by who?”

Mayank’s expression darkened. “That’s what I need to find out.”

-----

Ishan sat across from Shubman in their apartment, his mind reeling from Mayank’s discovery. He gripped the printed emails tightly in his hands.

“I want answers,” Ishan said, his voice sharper than he intended. “Mayank found emails—messages I supposedly wrote to someone before five years ago. But there’s no name, no records, nothing. Just like my past.”

Shubman’s eyes remained calm, almost too calm. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Ishan, I told you before—you had an accident. You lost your memories. Maybe you wrote those emails to a friend, a colleague, someone who didn’t matter in the long run. Why are you so obsessed with the past?”

Ishan’s grip tightened on the papers. “Because it’s my past. And every time I try to find something about it, I hit a wall. Why is that, Shubman?”

Shubman sighed, rubbing his temples as if exhausted. “Ishan, you’re overthinking this. You trust Mayank too much. He’s feeding your paranoia.”

Ishan shook his head. “This isn’t paranoia. My entire history before five years ago doesn’t exist in government records. That’s not normal.”

Shubman stood, walking around the table to place a hand on Ishan’s shoulder. His touch was warm, familiar—but suddenly, it felt like a trap.

“You don’t need to stress yourself over this,” Shubman said gently. “I love you, Ishan. Whatever happened in the past, it doesn’t change what we have now. You have me. Isn’t that enough?”

Ishan wanted to believe him. But for the first time, Shubman’s words felt like a carefully placed lock on a door he desperately needed to open.

----

Later that night, Ishan lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling. The conversation with Shubman had left him restless. His gut told him something was wrong. The more he dug into his past, the more Shubman dismissed it.

His phone vibrated beside him. Unknown Number.

Frowning, he hesitated before answering. “Hello?”

There was silence on the other end, followed by a soft, distorted whisper.

“Don’t trust him.”

Ishan shot up from the bed. “Who is this?”

No answer. Just breathing. Heavy, controlled. Then, a chilling click as the call disconnected.

Heart pounding, he immediately called Mayank.

“Bro, someone just called me,” Ishan said the moment Mayank picked up. “They said, ‘Don’t trust him.’ And then they hung up.”

Mayank was silent for a second. Then, “Did you recognize the voice?”

“No. It was distorted, like they were hiding their identity.” Ishan ran a hand through his hair. “This is bad, right?”

Mayank exhaled sharply. “Yeah. And it means someone out there knows what’s going on.”

Ishan felt a shiver crawl down his spine.

But who?

----

To be continued.....