The next morning, sunlight streamed through the curtains, warming Priya's cozy apartment. It was Sunday, her day to relax, and she let herself sleep in for a change. Stirring slowly, she dragged herself to the hallway, still groggy and wrapped in the haze of sleep. She tied her hair into a messy bun, stifling a yawn as she plopped onto the sofa. Her eyes scanned the room absently until they landed on the dining table.

There, sitting squarely in the middle, was a bag.

Priya frowned, her sleepiness ebbing away as memories of the night before came rushing back. His bag. She stood up, curiosity gnawing at her. Picking it up, she realized how heavy it was. The zipper was slightly open, and despite herself, she couldn't resist peeking inside.

A camera.

It was sleek, professional, the kind of camera you'd associate with someone serious about their craft. Priya stared at it, her mind spinning with questions. Is he a photographer? What does he even do? Should I return it? Or wait for him to come looking for it?

Before she could decide, her phone rang sharply, startling her out of her thoughts. She hurried to answer, the voice of her colleague Hina greeting her on the other end.

"Priya, have you seen the news?" Hina's voice was tinged with urgency. "The virus... it's spreading."

Priya's brow furrowed. "Virus? Yeah, I heard about it, but I didn't think it was that serious."

"You need to check the news. It's bad," Hina pressed.

Priya quickly switched on the TV, and her breath caught as she watched the breaking news reports. Footage of overcrowded hospitals and dire warnings filled the screen. Cases were surging in several parts of Japan, and there were fears of it spreading further. The images of patients, pale and frail, sent a chill down her spine.

"This... this does look serious," Priya admitted, her voice quieter now. "We'll need to take precautions."

"I'm scared, Priya," Hina confessed. "Did you see the patients on the news? They looked so critical."

Priya took a deep breath, trying to sound calm despite the unease curling in her chest. "Don't worry, Hina. This will pass. It always does. Let's just stay careful, okay? I'll see you at the office tomorrow. Try to have a good Sunday."

Hina managed a small laugh, though it was strained. "You too, Priya. Take care."

As the call ended, Priya stood still for a moment, staring at the TV. The news felt surreal, like something out of a dystopian novel. Shaking her head, she turned it off, pushing away the rising dread. No need to panic yet. Just stay cautious, she told herself.

The day stretched ahead of her, quiet and uneventful. She busied herself with household chores, the familiar rhythm of cleaning and organizing helping to keep her mind distracted. The bag with the camera remained on the dining table, a silent reminder of the strange man and the night before.

After lunch, Priya settled on the sofa with a book she had been meaning to read. The sunlight streaming through the window cast a warm glow on her apartment, and for a while, she lost herself in the world of fiction. Yet, every now and then, her eyes would flicker to the bag.

What's his story? Why does he live like that? she wondered. And as the hours passed, the mystery of him lingered in the back of her mind, quietly intertwining with the uncertainty of the world outside.

In his dimly lit apartment, Ram stirred awake on the couch, the faint throbbing in his forehead pulling him out of his restless sleep. He groaned, sitting up slowly, the pounding in his head matching the ache of distant memories he couldn't quite piece together. He rubbed his temples and stood, his legs unsteady as he made his way to the washroom.

Leaning on the sink, he looked up at the mirror. His reflection stared back, disheveled and worn. The cut on his forehead caught his attention—a thin, angry line running just above his eyebrow. He winced as he lightly brushed his fingers over it, fragments of last night slipping back into his consciousness.

The pub. The fight. The alcohol. It all blurred together in a chaotic haze. His memory was fragmented, but there was one thing he couldn't shake—the image of her. A woman. Kind eyes. Gentle hands. The way she had splashed water on his face, the droplets trailing down his cheeks. Ram closed his eyes, trying to focus, but her face remained frustratingly blurry, like a photograph out of focus.

Turning on the tap, he splashed cold water on his face, letting it trickle down and wet his hair. He stood there for a moment, gripping the edges of the sink, trying to center himself. The events of the night before felt strange, unfamiliar. He had lived here for five years, surrounded by people who either avoided him or judged him silently. Yet she had helped him. Why?

Shaking his head, Ram walked back into the kitchen. The faint scent of last night's chaos still lingered in the air—smoke, alcohol, the faint metallic tang of blood. He opened a drawer, grabbed his lighter, and lit a cigarette, letting the first drag of smoke fill his lungs.

He moved around his small kitchen, pulling out a mug and making himself a strong coffee. The hiss of the boiling water filled the silence of the room as he leaned against the counter, the cigarette dangling from his lips.

Her image haunted him—a stranger, yet there was something about her. The way she had spoken, her voice cutting through the fog of his drunken stupor. The way she had looked at him, not with pity or disdain, but with genuine concern.

Ram shook his head, exhaling a plume of smoke. What does it matter? he thought, taking a sip of his coffee. But even as he tried to push the thoughts away, her blurred face lingered in his mind, stubborn and persistent, like a ghost refusing to fade.

In the vast expanse of a bustling city where faces blurred and lives intersected without pause, two strangers found themselves tethered by an invisible thread—an inexplicable stirring of thoughts that neither could ignore nor understand.

Monday morning arrived, bringing with it the hum of the new week. Priya stood by her dining table, sipping her tea, her gaze drifting toward the bag on the table. She had almost forgotten about the camera until now. Why hasn't he come for it yet? she wondered, her brow furrowing. Perhaps he thought he had lost it, or maybe he didn't even remember leaving it behind in her apartment.

Priya picked up the bag, its weight reminding her of the confusion it had caused. She hesitated for a moment, glancing at the clock. She was already running late for work, but this was something she needed to get off her mind. She grabbed a sticky note and a pen, scribbling a short message:

"I think you left this bag behind by mistake on Saturday, so I'm returning it to you."

Satisfied, she peeled off the note and firmly pressed it onto the bag. Holding it by the strap, Priya walked toward the door, slipping into her shoes and slinging her handbag over her shoulder. She took a deep breath as she stepped into the hallway, the soft thud of her shoes echoing against the walls.

Her steps slowed as she approached his door. Priya stopped in front of it, clutching the bag tightly. The memory of his brash demeanor flashed in her mind—his curt words, his drunken stumble, and his aloof attitude. Why should I bother? she thought, biting her lip.

But then, her innate kindness overruled her irritation. With a sigh, she adjusted the bag in her hand. She raised her fist to knock but hesitated. No. I don't want to deal with him right now, she decided. Shaking her head, she hooked the bag onto the door knob instead, making sure it hung securely.

She stepped back and gave the bag one last glance. The bright yellow sticky note fluttered slightly in the morning breeze, her words standing out against the muted tones of the hallway. With a faint smile of resolve, Priya turned on her heel and walked away, the soft click of her door closing behind her as she headed off to face the day ahead.

Stepping onto the bustling street, Priya was met with a changed world. The usual rhythm of morning commuters was now undercut by an unmistakable tension. People moved quickly, their faces partially hidden behind masks that seemed to amplify the unease in the air. Priya adjusted her own mask, feeling its unfamiliar weight, and joined the tide of pedestrians heading toward the metro station.

As she descended the steps, the echo of hurried footsteps surrounded her. Inside the station, the chatter of worried voices filled the air. Strangers exchanged snippets of news and speculation about the virus, their conversations punctuated by nervous laughter or grave whispers. Priya couldn't help but feel the anxiety seeping into her own thoughts. She tightened her grip on the strap of her bag, seeking comfort in its familiar weight, and boarded the metro.

The usually lively hum of the train felt muted today, replaced by an undercurrent of apprehension. Heads bowed over phones displaying alarming headlines; hushed conversations carried fears of what was to come. Priya tried to distract herself, staring at the passing scenery outside the window, but the uneasy energy was infectious. Her mind flickered back to her phone call with Hina, to the serious tone in her friend's voice, and she felt her pulse quicken.

When the train pulled into her stop, Priya stepped out into the cold, sterile corridors leading to her office building. Even here, the atmosphere mirrored the city. Her colleagues, usually warm and cheerful, greeted her with masked faces and worried eyes. As she walked past desks and into her cubicle, snippets of conversations floated around her.

"Did you hear? They've closed a school nearby."
"I read that hospitals are running out of space."
"I'm telling you, this is only the beginning."

Priya sat down, her unease settling like a heavy cloud over her. The virus wasn't just a headline anymore—it was here, threading its way into every corner of her new life. For the first time, she felt the weight of uncertainty pressing on her shoulders, and she knew that the days ahead would demand resilience she hadn't yet tapped into.