The soft clink of cutlery echoed faintly from the kitchen below as Arya gently shut the door to her room. The night, thick and silent after Isha's departure, had taken on a weight of its own—dense, charged, and watchful.
But it wasn't just the night. It was Isha's words that wouldn't stop echoing in her head.
"If it's real, you'll have to choose."
Choose what? Between dreams and reality? Between the known pain of betrayal and the unknown pull of something ancient, magnetic… possibly dangerous?
Arya sat on the edge of her bed, her fingers moving almost instinctively to the mark just below her collarbone. It wasn't painful, not really, but a faint warmth pulsed beneath her skin. It was as if her body remembered something her conscious mind couldn't yet grasp. Every time she touched the mark, it flickered—like embers refusing to die out.
She inhaled slowly, trying to push the buzzing tension down. The silence pressed in closer.
Then—whispers.
Soft. Whispery. Like wind brushing through leaves. But it wasn't wind.
It was her name.
"Arya…"
Her eyes snapped open. She turned sharply toward the window, heart pounding. Nothing. No one.
And yet—something tugged at her.
The moon hung unusually low tonight, swollen, heavy, and soaked in a silvery-blue hue that painted the balcony tiles in ghostlight. The sight was otherworldly, like a forgotten portal from a dream. A strange flutter stirred inside her, then a jolt—deep in her chest. It wasn't fear.
It was a pull.
An invisible thread was winding around her, leading outward. Toward the forest. Toward the unknown.
Before she could talk herself out of it, Arya rose and walked toward the window. Her hands reached for the shawl on her chair almost of their own accord. As she wrapped it around her shoulders, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror.
The mark shimmered under the moonlight—just for a moment.
Her breath caught.
Not a dream. Not a hallucination.
It glowed.
She stepped onto the balcony. Cold air kissed her cheeks, sending a shiver down her spine. But the chill wasn't from the weather. It was something else—something primal. Her senses sharpened, her ears picking up the faintest rustle in the trees, and an unmistakable scent wafted through the night air—pine, firewood, and something she couldn't name. Raw. Wild.
Arya closed her eyes and let the air fill her lungs.
Then it happened.
A vision.
Not hazy like before. This time, it was piercing.
She stood barefoot under a moonlit sky, the earth damp beneath her feet. Trees towered around her, whispering secrets through their leaves. And beside her… a man. Tall. Powerful. Cloaked in the kind of presence that stilled the world.
His hand enveloped hers with a strange familiarity. Her fingers fit perfectly against his, like they'd been holding each other across lifetimes.
She looked up—but his face remained hidden in the shadows. Only the softness of his touch, the warmth of his forehead pressing against hers, and his voice—raw, aching—lingered.
"If I die, I will find you again… even if cursed."
The words burrowed into her, anchoring somewhere deep.
Arya gasped. Her body jolted as she snapped awake—back in her bed, drenched in sweat. Her heart hammered against her ribs. Her lungs clawed for air.
It had been a dream.
But her feet were wet.
She looked down—barefoot. A smear of damp dirt lined her heel.
Panic bubbled in her throat. She reached for the glass of water on her nightstand with trembling hands, needing something real.
That's when she saw it.
Across the room, her reflection in the tall antique mirror.
But it wasn't her.
It was a woman—almost her twin—but older, regal, draped in a crimson bridal lehenga embroidered with faded gold thread. Heavy jewelry clung to her neck and forehead, and her kohl-rimmed eyes were filled with ancient sorrow.
Arya froze.
The woman in the mirror raised a hand. But Arya hadn't moved.
Her lips began to move, mouthing something silent and urgent, but no sound came. Just as Arya took a step forward—the lights flared on.
The reflection vanished.
"Arya!" her grandmother's voice rang out, followed by hurried footsteps.
Dadi appeared in the doorway, her eyes scanning Arya's face. "What happened?"
"I… I saw someone," Arya whispered, her voice trembling. "In the mirror. A woman. She looked just like me… but older. Dressed like a bride."
Dadi's expression faltered. She stepped into the room and gently touched Arya's forehead. Then, without another word, she whispered something under her breath. Arya couldn't recognize the language—it was older, rhythmic, almost a chant.
"Was she real?" Arya asked, her voice barely audible.
Dadi didn't answer directly. Instead, she walked to the mirror and covered it with a shawl from the chair. "Don't go near the mirror tonight," she said, her tone firm. "And whatever you felt… that pull? Don't follow it. He's not ready. And neither are you."
Arya blinked. "He? You know who he is?"
Dadi turned away, pausing at the door. Her voice dropped to a whisper.
"So it begins."
And then she was gone.
The next day unfolded in a haze.
Arya sat at her desk at work, but her fingers hovered above her keyboard without typing. Her screen glowed blankly back at her.
The dream.
The bridal reflection.
The glowing mark.
It was too much. Too fast.
She tapped a quick message to Isha—"Come over tonight. I need to talk."
That night, they sat cross-legged on Arya's bed, mugs of hot tea nestled in their palms. The room was dimly lit by her bedside lamp. Shadows clung to the corners like secrets.
"Isha," Arya began, her voice low. "It's happening again. The dreams. The visions. I saw him. I felt him. Like he was real. Not just a character in my sleep—but someone… alive."
Isha's eyes didn't blink. She was fully present, listening with an intensity Arya had rarely seen.
"And the mark?" Isha asked.
Arya gently pulled aside her collar.
A soft glow pulsed just beneath her skin, then faded.
"It glowed when I stepped out under the moonlight. It happens when… I feel him close."
Isha leaned back against the headboard. "You think this man is… what? A ghost? A past lover? Some reincarnation from another life?"
Arya looked down at her hands. "I don't know. But it doesn't feel like fantasy. It feels like memory."
Silence filled the room, thick and uncertain.
Then Isha said, "And the mirror?"
Arya swallowed. "It wasn't my reflection. It was someone else. In a bridal outfit. But she looked like me. Her eyes… she was trying to tell me something."
Isha's expression tightened. "This isn't just about Rihaan and Meera anymore. This is bigger. Something ancient. Something you were meant to remember."
Arya nodded slowly. "But I'm not ready to confront them. Not until I know what really happened that night in the forest. The only clue I have left is the tape recorder. If that's broken… I lose everything."
Isha placed her mug down. "And if the tape's blank?"
Arya placed a hand over the mark. "Then I trust this. And my dreams. And the way my soul screams that I've lived this before."
Isha offered a half-smile. "Well, if you're caught in an eternal supernatural romance… at least the guy has golden eyes and dangerous werewolf vibes. You could've done worse."
Arya let out a breathy laugh—the first one in days. "You think I'm going crazy, don't you?"
Isha shook her head. "Honestly? If anyone else said it, I'd be dialing for an exorcist. But you? You've always had this… pull. Maybe it was never just this life pulling at you."
Arya leaned her head on Isha's shoulder, letting the comfort settle into her bones.
"I just want to know the truth," she murmured.
"They'll come," Isha replied. "But Arya… sometimes the truth doesn't free us. Sometimes, it breaks us first."
Arya closed her eyes, the memory of the man's voice replaying in her ears.
"If I die, I will find you again…"
"I think I'm ready to break," she whispered, "if it means I'll finally know who he is."
Outside, wind brushed past the trees with a whispering sigh. The forest stirred, restless. And somewhere beyond the moonlit path, a pair of golden eyes blinked open—watching. Waiting.