Mumbai, Present Day.
Every society has its quirks, but Rishi Heights — a sleek, luxury apartment tower nestled in the heart of Mumbai's Lokhandwala — had something that made even its poshest residents uneasy.
Rule No. 27 of the Residents’ Handbook, written in bold red font, simply said:
“Never, under any circumstances, use the secret lift.”
No one knew who wrote the rule. The builder was unreachable. The society secretary avoided talking about it. Even the old uncle on the 7th floor — who claimed he had survived 3 recessions and a haunted house in Pune — never said a word.
But everyone followed it.
The lift itself was hidden behind a janitor's closet near the service area on the ground floor. A dusty metal structure, with a red sticker across the buttons:
“DO NOT USE – By Order of Rishi Heights Management.”
It had no floor indicators. No sound. Just an odd, still presence.
And for 14 years, nobody touched it.
Until Anaya Kapoor broke the rule.
Anaya was 28, burnt out, and one bad week away from losing it. An ambitious brand manager with dreams of building her own agency, she'd found herself stuck in a loop — chasing deadlines, pitching to thankless clients, and navigating a modern love life filled with “let’s keep it casual” men.
That evening, she was carrying two grocery bags, a laptop, a potted plant (why had she bought that?), and a full-blown existential crisis. Her boyfriend had just ghosted her. Her boss had yelled at her over a presentation delay. And her mother had called to say, "Maybe it's time to consider marriage again."
She reached Rishi Heights, already regretting the five packets of Maggi she had panic-bought, and found the worst possible sight:
Both lifts were “Under Maintenance”.
She stared at the “Sorry for the inconvenience” sign like it personally betrayed her. Her flat was on the 14th floor.
That’s when she noticed something strange.
The janitor’s closet was open.
And beyond it… the secret lift.
It wasn’t locked anymore.
The red sticker was peeling, as if inviting her.
Anaya hesitated. She had heard stories — vague rumours exchanged at kitty parties and in Reddit threads. But exhaustion drowned reason. At that moment, her aching feet made the decision.
She stepped in.
The lift had no buttons. Just a single glowing panel.
Anaya whispered, “Fourteen,” and the door slid shut with a heavy clang.
The lift didn’t rise.
It began to descend.
B3… B7… B14…
Her stomach turned. Her ears popped. The panel blinked: B∞
Then — silence.
With a soft chime, the door opened.
She stepped out cautiously, heart pounding.
What lay before her was… uncanny.
A corridor — identical to her floor. Same layout. Same paint. Same smell of overused room freshener.
But something was off.
The nameplates on the doors were almost familiar.
Flat 1403: “A. Khan” — her best friend Ayesha’s name. But Ayesha didn’t live in Rishi Heights.
Flat 1404: “Kapoor A.”
Her name.
But she lived in 1403.
Numb with confusion, she turned the knob.
It opened easily.
Inside, the apartment was her dream version of life — decorated perfectly, warm lighting, bookshelves full, and artwork she hadn’t painted in years. A table set for two. A wedding photo of her — with Aakash, her college crush, whom she hadn’t spoken to in six years.
There were awards on the wall. Framed magazine covers. “India’s Youngest Brand Guru”.
And then…
“You’re back early,” a voice said.
Anaya spun around.
Standing in the kitchen was herself. Another Anaya. In the same body, the same face — but with a serenity that felt foreign.
Panicked, Anaya ran.
Back through the corridor. Into the lift. She pounded on the panel.
“Take me back!” she yelled.
No response.
Instead, the voice echoed:
“You have violated Rule 27. Now the lift chooses when you go.”
For 14 days, Anaya was trapped.
Each day, the lift stopped on a new “floor”.
Each one showed her a version of life shaped by a different decision.
In one, she was a school teacher in Himachal, married to a kind stranger she never remembered meeting.
In another, she was a lonely CEO in Dubai, rich beyond measure, sipping wine on a penthouse balcony — but with empty eyes.
She met versions of herself as a painter, a yoga instructor, a dropout, a mother of three, a recluse, even a failed startup founder running a chai truck in Lucknow — “Anaya’s Chaayos.”
Some lives were thrilling. Some were tragic. One had ended at 24 in a car crash.
She cried. Laughed. Raged.
But through it all, she learned one thing:
Every version had its own burdens.
There was no “perfect life.”
Just… different choices.
On the 15th day, the lift finally halted at her real 14th floor.
The corridor looked right.
Her door was ajar.
Inside, her tiny flat was still a mess — dishes in the sink, paint supplies unused, unopened bills, the potted plant barely alive.
But it was hers.
She smiled. Stepped in.
Behind her, the lift door slid shut silently.
She turned back.
It was gone.
No closet. No elevator. No sign it ever existed.
The next day, Anaya approached the building’s watchman, Murthy Uncle.
“Chotu, what’s with this Rule 27? Is it a prank?”
He looked at her with a knowing smirk.
“You too, huh?”
“What do you mean?”
“People break Rule 27 once. They come back… different. More peaceful. Or more mad.”
He winked. “But they don’t talk about it. And the lift? It never comes back for the same person twice.”
From that day, Anaya changed.
She stopped obsessing over the what ifs.
She quit her toxic job. Started a small, independent brand studio.
She painted again. She even called Aakash — not to get back, just to say hi.
She laughed more. Worried less.
And every time someone new moved into Rishi Heights and asked about Rule 27, she’d simply smile and say,
“Don’t break it.
Unless you're ready to see everything your life could have been —
And accept the one you have.”
Moral?
Some doors aren’t locked to keep you out.
They’re locked to keep you from losing yourself.
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