The wind howled through the dense forests of Mizoram, carrying with it the scent of damp earth and pine. Hruaia stood at the edge of the cliff, his boots scraping against the loose gravel as he peered into the abyss below. The valley stretched out before him, a sea of green punctuated by jagged rocks and the distant glint of a river. It was a view that should have filled him with awe, but today, it only deepened the ache in his chest.
Hruaia had always been a man caught between worlds. Born and raised in Mizoram, he had left his homeland to pursue a career as a historian in the bustling cities of modern India. Yet, no matter how far he traveled, the mountains always called him back. This trip was supposed to be a respite—a chance to reconnect with the land of his ancestors and escape the weight of his failures. His latest research project had been rejected by every academic journal he submitted it to, and his relationship with his fiancée had crumbled under the strain of his obsession with the past. Now, standing on the edge of the cliff, he felt as though he were standing on the edge of his own life.
The sun dipped lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the landscape. Hruaia adjusted the strap of his backpack and took a step closer to the edge. He wasn't sure why he had come here. Perhaps it was the allure of the unknown, the same curiosity that had driven him to study history in the first place. Or perhaps it was something darker—a desire to test the limits of his own courage, to see if he could stare into the void and not flinch.
As he leaned forward, a sudden gust of wind caught him off guard. His foot slipped on the loose gravel, and for a moment, he teetered on the edge, his arms flailing as he tried to regain his balance. But it was too late. The ground gave way beneath him, and he was falling.
The world seemed to slow as he plummeted. The jagged rocks below rushed up to meet him, their edges sharp and unforgiving. Hruaia's mind raced, a whirlwind of regret and fear. He thought of his parents, who had always believed in him. He thought of his fiancée, whose laughter he would never hear again. And he thought of the mountains, the ancient guardians of Mizoram, who had watched over countless generations of his people.
As he fell, a strange sensation washed over him. The air around him seemed to shimmer, as though he were passing through a veil. The roar of the wind faded, replaced by an eerie silence. And then, he saw her.
She stood at the edge of his vision, a figure cloaked in shadows. Her face was obscured, but he could feel her gaze piercing through him. She reached out a hand, her fingers brushing against his, and in that moment, he felt a surge of warmth, as though she were trying to pull him back from the brink.
"Who are you?" he tried to ask, but the words caught in his throat.
The figure didn't answer. Instead, she whispered something in a language he didn't understand, her voice echoing in his mind like the tolling of a distant bell. And then, everything went black.
When Hruaia opened his eyes, he was no longer falling. He lay on his back, staring up at a canopy of trees that swayed gently in the breeze. The air was thick with the scent of wood smoke and earth, and the sounds of the forest surrounded him—the chirping of birds, the rustle of leaves, the distant murmur of voices.
He sat up slowly, his body aching as though he had been struck by a truck. His clothes were torn and covered in dirt, and his backpack was nowhere to be seen. He looked around, trying to make sense of his surroundings. The forest was familiar, yet different. The trees seemed taller, the undergrowth denser. And the voices—they were speaking in a dialect of Mizo that he hadn't heard since his childhood.
"Am I dreaming?" he muttered, his voice hoarse.
Before he could gather his thoughts, a group of figures emerged from the trees. They were dressed in traditional Mizo attire—woven shawls, loincloths, and headbands adorned with feathers. Their faces were painted with intricate patterns, and they carried spears and bows. They stopped a few feet away, their eyes wide with a mixture of curiosity and fear.
One of them, a tall man with a scar running down his cheek, stepped forward. He spoke in a language that Hruaia recognized but hadn't heard in years. "Who are you, stranger? And how did you come to be here?"
Hruaia opened his mouth to respond, but no words came out. His mind raced as he tried to process what was happening. The clothes, the weapons, the language—it was as though he had stepped into another time.
The man with the scar studied him for a moment, then turned to his companions. "Take him to the village. The elder will know what to do."
As they approached him, Hruaia's instincts kicked in. He wanted to run, to fight, to demand answers. But his body was too weak, his mind too overwhelmed. He allowed them to lift him to his feet and lead him through the forest, his heart pounding with a mixture of fear and disbelief.
As they walked, he caught glimpses of the landscape—the towering trees, the distant mountains, the smoke rising from the village ahead. It was all so familiar, yet so alien. And then it hit him.
He wasn't in the 21st century anymore. He had fallen through time, back to an era when Mizoram was still untouched by the modern world. Back to a time of tribes and traditions, of prophecies and spirits.
Back to a time that would change him forever