Sreeparna Dutta Part 1: The Clock that Shouldn’t Tick The villa stood like a forgotten promise—wrapped in fog, choked by ivy, and hunched at the edge of the cliff like it wanted to leap off. Priya Kapoor stood before the iron gate of “Whispering Pines,” a name that now seemed laughably poetic. The trees didn’t whisper. They watched. She adjusted her scarf as the wind cut sharper than she remembered. This wasn’t the Himachal of pretty postcards or Instagram reels. This was old Darchand—the abandoned hill station locals said was cursed by time itself. The driver who brought her up…