Ravi stared out at the Mother City and its array of flickering lights. He recognised his reflection in the window, but he didn’t recognise himself. He had mourned for his father, but he had never mourned the loss of his previous self. He never knew why he called himself the Angel of Death to the Nazi. He had never called himself that before. He didn’t know why he had the feeling of déjà vu. Perhaps it was a consequence of the trauma of surviving the unexploded grenade, or the waiting while he lay on top of it, or whether it was something bigger that he just didn’t understand. What he did know, was that there was no such thing as a coincidence and now more than ever he couldn’t stop his heart from missing Shanti.
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