On the screen was a living room. But it wasn't a movie set. It was a living room from 1996. He recognized the pattern on the sofa; it was a popular Indian design from the decade his parents were married. In the center of the frame, a family sat eating dinner. The audio was crisp—the clinking of steel thalis, the hum of a ceiling fan.
Arjun turned toward the window. The rain had stopped. The street was empty. But parked right outside the glass door, where there should have been only asphalt, sat an old, rusted railway carriage. The door to the carriage slid open.
On the screen was a living room. But it wasn't a movie set. It was a living room from 1996. He recognized the pattern on the sofa; it was a popular Indian design from the decade his parents were married. In the center of the frame, a family sat eating dinner. The audio was crisp—the clinking of steel thalis, the hum of a ceiling fan.
Arjun turned toward the window. The rain had stopped. The street was empty. But parked right outside the glass door, where there should have been only asphalt, sat an old, rusted railway carriage. The door to the carriage slid open.