Now Amay could see the tree glowing with his naked eyes.
Guru spoke calmly, “This tree represents the constant of your life. For most people, the only constant they ever know is themselves. When they look at this tree, they can only visualize their own existence reflected back at them.”
He paused, then looked at Amay.
“But your case is different.”
Amay felt a quiet unease settle within him.
“Close your eyes,” Guru said, “and concentrate on Anvi’s memories.”
Amay obeyed.
He focused on her—her sight, her scent, the warmth of her touch. Her likes, her dislikes. The way the air felt around her, the silence she carried, the emotions she never spoke aloud.
And suddenly, the tree began to change.
Its trunk shifted, branches extending and twisting, light rearranging itself as if responding to his thoughts. Within moments, the tree no longer resembled its earlier form. It had transformed completely.
Amay opened his eyes, stunned.
“What is happening?” he asked.
Guru answered softly, “This tree represents Anvi. Every branch is a choice she made. Each choice gave birth to a different realm… a different timeline.”
Amay stood frozen, unable to process what he was hearing.
Guru smiled and pointed toward one of the branches. Two glowing orbs hung from opposite ends, pulsing gently like distant stars.
“Focus on them,” Guru said. “One at a time.”
Amay concentrated on the first orb.
At first, it flickered. Then slowly, it unfolded into a memory.
He saw himself sitting on the ground, Anvi’s lifeless body in his lap. He was crying—broken, helpless, hollow.
The weight of it crushed him.
Amay gasped and opened his eyes, breath uneven, chest tight, as if the air had been sucked out of him. The heaviness lingered, unbearable.
Guru steadied him. “Now,” he said gently, “focus on the second orb.”
Amay hesitated, then forced himself to concentrate.
The world shifted again.
This time, Anvi was alive. She was wearing the same lehenga, the same night—but she was not driving. She was walking alone on the street, crying, rain clinging to her clothes.
Then he saw himself.
His car stopped in front of her. He asked her to get in. She refused. Without hesitation, he lifted her onto his shoulder and placed her inside the car, forcefully, desperately.
The vision shattered.
Amay returned to himself, heart pounding, breath loud in his ears.
It was the same night. The same clothes. The same moment in time.
But it had never happened in his timeline.
And yet, standing there, shaken and overwhelmed, Amay realized something with aching clarity—
He wished it had.
Guru spoke again, his voice steady and deep.
“This tree represents life, Amay. Your life is nothing but a simulation of choices.”
He gestured toward the glowing trunk.
“Every time you make a choice, a new branch grows—each one signifying a different timeline. Some branches reflect your past, some your present, and some what you have not yet lived.”
Guru’s hand rested on the trunk.
“But all of them are bound by your consciousness, just as these branches are held together by the trunk.”
He looked at Amay intently.
“Without the trunk, the branches would have no meaning. Without your awareness, these timelines would remain scattered possibilities.”
“And it is your consciousness,” Guru said softly, “that gives them form.”
Amay looked at the endless branches, his voice trembling with a fragile hope.
“Does this mean,” he asked slowly, “that I can see every version of Anvi here? Every choice she made… in every timeline?”
The thought struck him deeply.
If that was true, then there had to be realities where she was alive. Where they were still together.
Guru studied him for a moment before answering.
“Yes,” he said. “But understand this carefully.”
He pointed to a branch that was unusually short.
“This branch,” Guru explained, “is the timeline where she died—*your* timeline.”
Amay’s chest tightened.
“When a branch ends abruptly, it signifies a life that could not move forward,” Guru continued. “That is why it is short.”
Guru then gestured toward the longer branches stretching far into the luminous space.
“These branches represent timelines where she continues into the future. The longer the branch, the further her life extends.”
He shifted his hand toward a few smaller branches, even shorter than the one Amay recognized.
“And these,” he said softly, “are timelines that exist in her past—realities that diverged before the moment she died in yours.”
Amay followed his gaze, absorbing every word.
Finally, Guru pointed toward a branch growing in the exact opposite direction of Amay’s timeline—equal in length, balanced, steady.
“This branch,” Guru said, “leads to her present.”
Amay’s breath caught.
“If you wish to reach Anvi as she exists *now*,” Guru continued, “this is the path you must understand.”
The tree pulsed faintly, as if acknowledging the truth.
And for the first time since her death, hope did not feel like imagination to Amay.
It felt real.
Having said that, Guru stepped back and spoke softly,
“I will leave you and her alone now.”
Amay bowed his head slightly, gratitude shining in his eyes. He exhaled slowly.
Now the choice was his.
He did not wish to look into her past—that alone eliminated half the branches before him. What mattered to him was not what *had been*, but what *could be*.
He wanted to know if, somewhere ahead, she was still with him.
Amay focused his consciousness on an orb hanging from one of the longer branches.
As the light within it unfolded, a smile slowly appeared on his face.
They were old now.
Anvi was dressed in a simple cotton suit, her hair touched by time, yet her grace unchanged. She sat on a swing, gentle and calm, while Amay lay with his head resting in her lap.
Their bodies had aged, but their eyes still held the same love—quiet, deep, unquestioning.
No words were spoken.
None were needed.
He withdrew from that memory and shifted his focus to another orb.
This time, Anvi was standing outside a school gate, phone held to her ear. Children’s voices echoed faintly in the background. She looked familiar—calm, composed, alive.
Amay leaned into the moment, listening.
“Hello, Amay,” she said softly. “Have you reached home? I’m outside the school, waiting for Ammu.”
His heart skipped a beat.
The voice from the other end of the call was his own.
“Yes,” the other Amay replied. “Take care. Text me when you reach home.”
Before Amay could process it, the vision shifted again.
A small child came running out of the school gates and crashed into Anvi’s arms, clinging to her tightly. She laughed softly, bending down to hold him.
Amay’s breath caught.
They had a son.
The child’s eyes—hers.
The curve of his lips—hers.
And yet, unmistakably, *his*.
The realization struck him with unbearable weight. Anvi was not just alive in this timeline—she was the mother of his child.
Amay felt impossibly small in front of destiny.
Tears streamed down his face as he stood there, crying—not from loss this time, but from the vastness of what could have been.
For a few moments, Amay let himself cry—over fate, over destiny, over everything that had slipped through his hands.
Then a thought struck him.
If these timelines existed, it meant one thing—Anvi *could* have avoided getting into that car.
His breathing steadied as realization took hold.
*I need to go back,* he thought. *I need to see what made her choose that path. Why she ran. Why that single moment turned into an accident.*
He already knew the past of his own timeline.
What he needed now was to understand the past of *another*.
What would he have done differently to stop her from making that choice?
Amay turned his attention back to the tree.
He focused on the earlier orb—the one where he had lifted her onto his shoulder and forced her into the car.
That moment was the divergence.
With a quiet determination settling in his chest, Amay chose it.
And this time, he did not look forward.
He stepped into the past of that timeline.
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