Two souls bound across centuries, drawn together by a thread that never breaks. 🥀
In the quiet, dusty aisle of a bookstore, 28 year old Dr. Mahir finds his world upended in an instant. A composed physician who usually loses himself in video games a...
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Some threads don't break. They just fray across lifetimes.
The full moon was too bright.
It bled through the thin curtains of his hostel room and fell directly on his face, on his chest that was rising and falling too fast, too hard.
Shreegandh was drowning.
Not in water. In a hallway. A long, endless hallway of an old haveli that smelled like rain and sandalwood. The lanterns on the wall were flickering. He was running barefoot, his white kurta sticking to his back with sweat. His anklets were making noise. His anklets?
He wasn't supposed to be wearing anklets. "Wait!" he tried to scream, but his voice was not his own. It was softer, younger.
At the end of the hallway, a man stood with his back to him. Tall. Broad shoulders. In a deep red angarkha. His hair was tied, but a few strands had come loose. Even from behind, he felt safe. Familiar in a way that made his chest ache.
The man slowly turned.
Shreegandh couldn't see his face. Only his hand extended towards him. A hand with a thin, old scar cutting across the palm, like a faded crescent moon.
Come here.
He didn't hear it. He felt it.
He reached out
And woke up.
Gasping.
Shreegandh shot up on his bed, his t-shirt clinging to him, his breaths shallow and uneven. The AC was on full blast but he was sweating. His hands were shaking so badly he knocked over the empty glass on his side table.
It was that dream again. No, not the same dream. A new one. But the same feeling. The same hallway. The same hand.
Prophetic dreams. That's what his grandmother used to call it. His curse.
He fumbled for the water bottle, his throat dry. He drank half of it in one go, water dripping down his chin.
What was that? he thought, pressing his cold palm to his racing heart. That haveli... that man... it doesn't make sense.
Am I going to be in trouble tomorrow?
His mind, trained to be logical final year MBBS, topper, gold medalist in the making tried to rationalize it. Stress. Too much caffeine. Pediatric Care presentation tomorrow.
