700 ᏦᎥᏝᎧᎷᏋᏖᏒᏋᏕ ᏗᏇᏗᎩ

Chapter 4: Whispers in the Dream

It was past midnight.

The hostel lay silent beneath the heavy breath of summer, disturbed only by the whirr of a lone ceiling fan and the distant drone of traffic from the city road. Harshan lay on his narrow bed, half-covered by a thin sheet, one arm draped over his forehead, the other loosely holding the ring that never left his hand.

His thoughts had been heavy—memories mixing with exhaustion, loneliness tugging at the corners of his mind. And somewhere, somewhere between one breath and the next, sleep claimed him.

And with sleep came the dream.

---

It started in the old school corridor.

Long stretches of tiled floors, classrooms on either side, and that familiar green-and-white notice board he had once passed every single day. The echoes of student chatter filled the air—voices he had nearly forgotten. But in the midst of it all, time slowed.

There she was.

Ishwaani Hanshi.

Standing near the back window of the library corridor, her dark hair tucked behind one ear, a worn-out book in her hand. Her eyes were steady, thoughtful—and searching. But as a group of students walked past, she lowered her gaze and turned away, just like always.

In school, they rarely talked.

They had to be careful. They weren’t like other students holding hands or sitting beside each other in free periods. Their love lived in corners and shadows, in notebooks and between moments. No one could know. Nobody knew. Only Dharan, Harshan’s best friend, ever caught the truth behind their careful silence.

Harsha walked past her in the dream like he had so many times in real life—without a word, without a glance.

But both of them felt it.

The pulse that tied their silences together.

The dream shifted like a slow breeze.

Now they were in the classroom, sitting rows apart. She was two benches ahead, diagonally placed so she could see him if she tilted her head just enough. Harshan’s eyes followed the teacher’s chalk strokes on the board—but in the corner of his notebook, his hand moved, scribbling something with quick strokes:

"Last bench, library, 4:10."

Later that day, as students shuffled out after the bell, Ishwaani lingered. Her bag rested on one shoulder as she walked to his desk—not looking at him, but carefully tearing the bottom corner of a notebook he’d left behind. She didn’t even read it right away. She just folded it and walked out.

The next moment, they were there.

In that quiet corner of the library no one ever used. Between shelves of untouched encyclopedias and dusty language dictionaries, Harshan waited. And she came, always five minutes late, always after checking if the coast was clear.

“I missed you today,” he whispered.

She smiled. “You saw me four times.”

He leaned slightly forward. “That doesn’t count.”

They didn’t need hours. They just needed those stolen minutes. A brush of fingers behind the bookshelf, a quick exchange of chocolates, soft words that meant everything.

---

Another memory rolled in like a slow wave.

They sat in the old public park a few streets away from school. The place was mostly empty in the evenings. Their bags sat between them like a wall. But it wasn’t a wall. It was their bridge.