Three years later. Alby runs a second-hand bookshop near Fort Kochi beach. He survives on black coffee and regret. One evening, a young woman, Sreeja, a true-crime podcaster, walks in. She doesn’t want books—she wants his memory. "Someone is killing again, sir," she says. "And they’re using your missing three hours as a blueprint."

Alby scoffs. But she shows him photos from a new crime scene: a woman in a blue set-saree , posed on a swing, a jasmine garland placed just so—exactly how Meera used to sit every Friday evening. Only Alby knew that detail. Except he didn’t remember telling anyone.

He closes his eyes. For the first time in three years, he sleeps.

The climax: The Archivist reveals himself—not a stranger, but Dr. Anwar, Meera’s psychiatrist. Anwar had been treating Alby for "dissociative episodes." During those sessions, Alby had unknowingly described, in hypnotic trance, the violent fantasies that fueled his hidden rage—rage toward Meera, who was leaving him. Anwar, a psychopath fascinated by the architecture of memory, decided to make Alby’s subconscious real.