Word had spread like spice market gossip: The woman could write destinies.

People lined up, clutching crumpled horoscopes, whispering wishes for love, wealth, escape from their humdrum lives. A young man, sweat beading on his brow, pleaded, "Maa, write success into my clothing business!"

A woman, her voice trembling, begged, "Write away my husband's illness, Maa!"

That woman listened, her gaze unwavering. Then, she would simply smile. Not a pitying smile, nor a mocking one. Just a serene, gentle curving of her lips. They'd press harder, "But...will you write it? Can you...?" And the smile would deepen, reaching her eyes, reflecting the flickering lanterns of the street, saying everything and nothing.

They left, confused, some frustrated, others oddly comforted. In the swirling chai steam, whispers followed them - "Perhaps her smile is the writing?" "Maybe destiny isn't ink on paper, but something else..."

The woman just kept smiling, the scent of jasmine from her hair mixing with the cacophony of people, a silent, heavenly mystery in the heart of the city.

The dust tasted metallic, coating my tongue and scratching the back of my throat. I coughed, the sound echoing oddly in the vast space. Blinking against a dim, pervasive gloom, I pushed myself up to a sitting position, my head throbbing like a drum solo gone wrong. Where... where was I?

It took a moment for my vision to adjust, for the blurry shapes to resolve themselves into something resembling a room. But it wasn't a room, not really. The walls were stretching into shadowed heights I couldn't discern. The air hung heavy, stagnant. But the strangest part wasn't the dust or the silence. It was the rectangles.

Everywhere I looked, they were there. Glowing rectangles of varying sizes hung in the air, suspended as if by magic. They pulsed with a soft, internal light, casting a weak, otherworldly glow on the dusty floor and walls. Some were small as tablets, others the size of doorways, all radiating a faint, humming energy. No screensavers, no interfaces, just a constant, shifting luminescence.

I stood up, my legs stiff and unsteady, and took a tentative step towards the nearest one. It was a warm, pale blue, and seemed to shimmer slightly at its edges.

I reached out, my fingers hovering just inches away. An undeniable pull emanated from it, a whisper of... familiarity? My heart thumped faster.

My fingers instinctively went to my head, wanting to massage the thoughts quiet, but I only found the smooth waves of my hair. My gaze travelled downwards; more questions arose. I was draped in swathes of saffron silk, intricately embroidered with golden thread that caught the strange light of the room. A saree. The word surfaced unbidden, a ghost whisper in the silent chamber of my mind. It was beautiful, this garment, elegant and richly textured, but utterly alien in this desolate place.

It felt like a costume, not clothing I would choose for...for what? I couldn't even finish the thought. Who would I choose clothing for?

Panic started to prickle at the edges of my confusion. Who was I? Where was I from? My mind was a blank slate, wiped clean. No memories, no name, nothing but a raw, visceral sense of wrongness.

Kidnapped? That was the first, gut reaction that clawed its way to the surface. Someone had taken me, drugged me, and dumped me in this... weird place. My heart hammered against my ribs. I needed to get out.

I spun around, searching for any clue, any sign, anything familiar in this bizarre room.

"Lost, are we?"

The voice was like dry leaves rustling on concrete, disembodied and echoing, yet somehow right beside me. I jumped, whirling around again, my breath catching in my throat. There was no one there.

"Show yourself!" I yelled, my voice cracking, fear twisting in my gut. "Who's there?"

"Patience, little fragment," the voice chuckled, the sound devoid of warmth. "No need for theatrics. I am Rayer. And I am... the caretaker here." With the trailing voice, the man materialised.

He was tall, impossibly so, and draped in clothes that seemed handwoven. Layers of saffron and bright white fabric cascaded around him, embroidered with intricate patterns that shifted and shimmered in the glowing light. He wore a wrapped headdress, adorned with gold that looked like solidified flames, and his skin possessed the warm, burnished hue of ancient bronze.

Around his neck, strands of rudraksha beads gleamed against his skin, and his eyes, when they finally met mine, were pools of molten gold, ancient and knowing.

"Caretaker of what? This... dusty warehouse of glowing screens?" I retorted, my voice trembling despite my attempt at bravado. "Did you kidnap me? Is that it? Where am I? And who am I?"

Silence hung in the air for a long moment, thick and heavy as the dust. Then, the voice returned, closer this time, as if it was just behind my ear. "Kidnapped? My dear... you wound me. Histoire doesn't kidnap. It... collects."

Suddenly, the room seemed to shift. The shadows deepened, the glowing rectangles pulsed brighter, casting long, distorted shapes on the walls. The air grew colder, a chill that seeped into my bones. A sense of dread, heavy and suffocating, pressed down on me.

"Histoire?" I whispered, the name feeling alien on my tongue. "What is Histoire?"

"Look around you, little fragment," Rayer's voice instructed, patient now, almost pitying. "Look at these... rectangles, as you call them. They are not screens. They are echoes. Reflections. Fragments."

I turned back to the glowing blue rectangle, hesitantly reaching out again. This time, I touched it.

The moment my fingertips brushed the cool, smooth interface, a jolt, not of electricity but of something... deeper, resonated through me. Images flashed behind my eyes – fleeting, chaotic, like shards of broken glass reflecting light. A bustling street, rain slicked and lit with earthen lights. A cozy mud house, bookshelves overflowing, a steaming mug on a table. A face... a woman's face, with kind eyes and a smudge of ink on her cheek. Then, darkness.

I stumbled back, gasping, my hand flying to my chest. The images vanished as quickly as they came, leaving behind a dizzying disorientation and a phantom ache of loss.

"Do you feel it, fragment?" Rayer's voice was close, almost a whisper now. "These are remnants. Echoes of... stories. Fragments of characters, abandoned, forgotten."

My breath hitched. Characters? Stories? Abandoned? My gaze darted around the room, taking in the sheer number of glowing rectangles. An endless library of light, each one humming with a forgotten narrative.

"This... this is where you put people you kidnap?" I repeated, still struggling to grasp the impossible.

Rayer sighed, a sound like wind through a crumbling window frame. "No, fragment. Histoire is where they come. Authors... they create worlds, characters, lives. They pour their souls into them. But sometimes... sometimes, the stories are abandoned. The books close. The writers move on. And what happens to the characters left behind?"

My blood ran cold. I stared at the glowing rectangles, a terrible understanding dawning within me. Were these... were these the discarded pieces of stories? And was I... one of them?

"Histoire," Rayer continued, the voice laced with a strange weariness, "is the place where the abandoned characters end up. The loose threads, the unfinished plots, the forgotten heroes and villains. We drift here, caught in the static of unfinished narratives, waiting..."

"Waiting for what?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

"For oblivion," Rayer stated bluntly. "For the Reaper to come and erase you all completely. To prune the unfinished branches from the tree of stories."

My heart plummeted. Reaper? Erase? This was insane. It had to be. Kidnapping, glowing rectangles, ghostly caretakers, and now... Reapers of abandoned characters?

"You're lying," I croaked, shaking my head, trying to deny the chilling truth that was settling over me like a shroud. "This is some kind of... elaborate prank. You're messing with me."

"Am I?" Rayer's voice was soft, almost melancholy. "Look closer, fragment. Look at yourself. Can you remember your name? Your past? Your... story?"

I tried again, desperately clawing at the void in my mind. Nothing. Blank. Empty. Except... a faint, phantom echo of... something. Something that felt like loss. Like a chapter torn from a book, leaving jagged edges and an incompleteness that ached in my soul.

"I... I don't know," I admitted, the words catching in my throat.

"Exactly," Rayer said, the echo of the voice seeming to draw closer, encircling me. "You are a fragment. A piece of a story left unfinished. And the Reaper... the Reaper is coming for you. Soon."

"How soon?" I demanded, my voice rising in panic.

"Twenty days, fragment," Rayer answered, the words hanging in the dusty air like a death sentence. "Twenty days until the Reaper claims you. Until you fade completely from Histoire, from... existence."

Twenty days. That wasn't long. Not long at all. Fear, cold and sharp, pierced through my confusion and denial. I was trapped in this bizarre place, with no memory, no past, and a looming deadline of annihilation.

"But... why?" I stammered, my voice trembling. "Why me? Why am I here? What did I do?"

"You were written, fragment," Rayer explained, the voice now devoid of any emotion, simply stating facts. "You were given life... then abandoned. Many like you end up in Histoire, and you will meet a few in these twenty days. It is the nature of stories. Not all are finished. Not all characters get their happy ending."

Happy ending? Right now, I'd settle for any ending that didn't involve being erased by a mythical Reaper within twenty days.

"Is there... is there any way out?" I asked, desperation clawing at my throat. "Any way to stop the Reaper?"

Rayer was silent for a moment, and for the first time, a flicker of something... almost like... hope? ignited within me. Was there a chance?

"There is one way," Rayer finally said, the voice low and grave. "But it is... improbable. Perhaps even impossible."

"Tell me!" I pleaded, my hands clenching into fists. "I'll do anything."

"Your story, fragment," Rayer said, the voice taking on a new, almost predatory edge. "It still exists, scattered, fractured, like shards of a broken mirror. It is here, within Histoire, dispersed among these echoes. If... and it is a monumental if... you can find the fragments of your story, collect them, and sew them back together... before the Reaper arrives... before he finds them... you might have a sliver of a chance."

"Sew them back together?" I repeated, confused. "What does that even mean?"

"Find your memories, fragment," Rayer elaborated, the voice taking on a subtle, almost purring quality that sent shivers down my spine. "Find the pieces of who you were, who you are supposed to be. They are here, within these echoes, within Histoire. But be warned... your story is fragmented for a reason. Some stories are best left unfinished. And some fragments... are tastier than others."

The air vibrated with a low hum, and I suddenly felt a shift, a subtle pressure, as if the room itself was tightening around me. Rayer's final words hung in the air, heavy with implication.
"Twenty days, fragment. Twenty days of freedom."

My gaze snapped back to the glowing rectangles, now seen in a terrifying new light. They weren't just random screens. They were pieces of stories, fragments of lives, and somewhere within them... were pieces of my story. My memories. My past. My only hope.

Twenty days. It was impossible. But what choice did I have?

Taking a deep breath, I reached out again, this time to a smaller, vibrant green rectangle. The humming intensified as my fingers touched it, and a rush of images flooded my mind, sharper this time, more coherent. A family, a wailing cat, the scratch of a pen on paper, the scent of ink and old parchment.

A name... not mine, but "Saroshi, jay Maa Saroshi," they chanted.

Saroshi? The name resonated, not with recognition, but with a sense of... longing? Was she... my author? Had she written me? And then... abandoned me?

The images faded, leaving a lingering sense of... disappointment.

My name. Had I finally caught a glimpse of my own story? Hope flickered again, brighter this time, pushing back the crushing weight of despair. Twenty days. Impossible or not, I had to try. I had to find those fragments. I had to sew myself back together before the Reaper, found me first.

But what was my name?

I looked at Rayer who was still focused on the white glowy book in his hand. "What is my name, Rayer?"

Rayer chuckled as if I had cracked the joke of the century. "I cannot tell you, fragment, but for these twenty-days, let me call you Ira."