The air at home was different.
Calmer. Quieter. Deceiving.
Arya stepped out of the car after reaching her home quiet away from snowy forests. Doctors discharged her and told that she healed twice to thrice times than a normal person could. On reaching she inhaled deeply, the scent of wet earth grounding her for a moment. Her grandmother's hand lightly touched her back, guiding her inside as if afraid she'd vanish again. The porch light buzzed quietly above them, casting soft shadows that danced along the old walls.
"I'll make you turmeric milk," her grandmother whispered, her voice softer today, almost like a song she hadn't sung in years.
Arya gave a weak nod and walked to her room. The familiar scent of sandalwood and lavender wrapped around her. Everything was just as she'd left it—except for her. Her bookshelf still had that creaky lean to the right, the window slightly ajar let in the whispering breeze, and the photographs on the wall smiled back with memories she couldn't relate to anymore.
She wasn't the same girl who had danced under fairy lights with a birthday cake and a ring box hidden in her purse. That girl had dreams and trust. This girl had questions.
She was something else now. Something… awakening.
That night, the house lay silent, tucked under a sky full of clouds.
Arya curled beneath the sheets, but her body refused rest. Sleep crept in like a lullaby, but her heart thudded with an unspoken warning. Dreams had stopped being her sanctuary. Now, they were messages. Fragments. Truths wearing fantasy like masks.
She blinked and found herself standing in a white haze, the ground beneath her glowing faintly. Her surroundings were surreal, but what shook her more was the figure across from her.
It was her.
Dressed in ancient robes, regal and commanding. Her hair flowed like ink, her eyes gleamed with purpose, her skin shimmered like it held starlight. Fierce. Radiant. Powerful.
She looked herself in the eye. There was no fear in that version of Arya. Only resolve.
"You're not weak. Not anymore."
The voice echoed like thunder inside crystal.
Then the mist parted.
From the white shroud, a man appeared—his presence overwhelming. His eyes glowed like molten gold, piercing through every illusion. His chest heaved, breath wild with want. His bare feet padded silently over the haze as he approached her.
She couldn't move.
He reached out, his fingers grazing her cheek. Her skin burned where he touched. Not from pain—but from recognition. Her heart pounded. Her hands moved on their own, finding his chest, then his hair. His lips brushed her neck.
A moan escaped her lips. She didn't even know his name, yet every fiber in her screamed familiarity. Desire. Safety. Longing.
They fell into each other.
His kiss was fire and desperation. Her gasp filled the dream space as their bodies melted into one rhythm. She felt his pain in every touch. His love in every breath. His guilt in every kiss.
Pleasure. Pain. Something deeper.
A connection older than memory.
She wanted to stay.
But then—she appeared again.
Herself. The robed version.
"Arya... Wake up."
A flash of light. A sound like a blade slicing through time.
And she jolted upright in bed, breathless, drenched in sweat, the sheets clinging to her like a second skin. Her hands shook. Her lips still tingled.
The dream was over. But the feeling wasn't.
Morning arrived without apology.
Arya dragged herself to the sink. Her face looked tired—too tired for someone who had just slept. She splashed water on herself and stared into the mirror.
Her collarbone ached faintly.
She pulled her top down slightly and stared. Right where the throbbing pulsed, a faint shimmer glowed beneath the skin—as if something had been branded there. But it vanished when she blinked.
She looked at her hand next. A cut from two days ago—completely healed. Not even a scar. Just flawless skin.
What was happening to her?
Was she going insane? Or was something waking up inside her?
She didn't have time to think. Her phone buzzed. Office. Reality.
By noon, she dressed for work.
Black jeans. White blouse. Hair tied loosely. No lipstick. No perfume.
Her body moved on autopilot, but her mind buzzed like static. Every sound seemed louder. Every color more vivid. The whispers of the wind carried emotions. Anger. Joy. Warnings.
She walked into the office, and it all felt alien. The chatter, the tapping keyboards, the fake laughter in the lounge.
She couldn't hold it in anymore.
She found Isha in the hallway, her laptop in one hand, a coffee in another. Isha looked up and froze.
"Arya! Oh my God, are you okay?" She rushed forward and hugged her tight.
But Arya didn't return it.
"I need to talk. Now. Somewhere private."
Isha nodded, concern deepening in her eyes.
They sat in the tiny break room.
No lights. Just sunlight pouring through half-closed blinds. Dust particles floated like tiny ghosts.
Arya took a deep breath and let the dam break.
The trip. The betrayal. The forest. The man. The mark. The dreams.
Everything.
She watched Isha's expression twist through a storm of emotions—shock, disbelief, confusion, concern—and then, finally, something else. A quiet fury.
"He cheated on you? With Meera?" Isha spat. "What a freaking dog."
Arya nodded, biting her lip hard enough to draw blood. "And the man… in the forest. He saved me. I know he did. But no one believes me. Daadi's acting weird. I'm seeing things. Healing fast. Hearing whispers. Sometimes… I feel like the wind is speaking to me. Like it knows me."
Isha's lips parted, but she didn't speak immediately.
She grabbed Arya's hand and held it tightly.
"Okay. One step at a time," Isha said, steadying her voice. "First—don't you dare doubt yourself. Second—we'll talk more tonight. I'll come to your place after work, alright?"
Arya exhaled, trembling. "Promise?"
"Promise. I'm not letting you go through this alone."
Later, Arya sat alone in the break room, her hands wrapped around a warm paper cup.
She leaned back and watched Isha walk away through the small window in the door. For the first time in days, she felt a flicker of safety.
But the second the door closed, something odd happened.
She glanced at the vending machine in front of her.
Her reflection.
It didn't match her expression.
For a heartbeat—it smiled back at her.
Even though she didn't.