In the misty hills of Landour, a writer retreats to an old Mughalian British palace, hoping to find a story. The palace is a half-ruin, shrouded in fog--a secret waiting to be remembered.
He has come with nothing, yet the qwords begin to flow. The wind carries a woman's faint laughter, melancholy melody through the velvet corridors, and slowly, the palace comes alive on the page a reality so vivid. As he loses himself in the life he is creating, the line between memory and imagination dissolves. The past isn't a tale being written--it's consciousness being inherited for good.
A haunting meditation on creation, memory, and the stories that refuse to die. This novel moves through time and mind, asking a dangerous question: What happens when the words you capture are not your own fiction, but a life demanding to be lived again and addressed.
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