She thought that Ayani's dreams had faded with time. But the dream that remains returns again—and again—asking only: Why did she come back?
~~~~~
Ahmaya walk home in silence, the weight of her grandma's words pressing against her chest.
At home, she sit beside her grandmother, her fingers curling around Amma's wrinkled hands.
"Why are you calling it all a dream? You know it is real… they are real."
"No," her grandmother cuts in sharply, almost afraid of her own voice.
"No. Don't talk about it again."
"Why? Why should I not talk about it? What are you hiding?"
Her grandmother does not reply.
Ahmaya leans closer, her words spilling with trembling urgency.
"You know—I was in the past. I was in 1936. Once, when I was trapped, Mother came to me in a vision. She helped me break free. There is no chance it was an illusion."
Her grandmother's face softens for a fleeting second. Then she whispers:
"You have gone mad."
"What? You saw what was happening in the forest!" Ahmaya's voice cracks, her frustration rising.
"Yes… I saw you talking to yourself and then stumbling, terrified." Her grandmother's voice rises too, ragged, defensive.
"You didn't see the trees move? The air change—?"
"What are you talking about?" Her grandmother grips her shoulders, trembling. "I will call the best psychologist I can. You need treatment."
"Amma, I know you saw it too. I've seen it in your eyes."
Her grandmother exhales, then releases her shoulders and turns away.
"It's real, Amma. Not a dream, not an illusion. You know that too."
Her grandmother halts at the door. When she turns back, her eyes are hard as stone.
"Every mad person thinks like that."
"How can you say that, Amma…"
"You are not allowed to leave this house." With that, she walks out, her footsteps sharp and final.
Ahmaya sits frozen, certainty burning inside her. Her grandmother is hiding something.
Her grandmother walks into her own room, sweat glistening on her forehead. She locks the door, lifts her cell phone with trembling fingers, and dials a number.
The phone rings.
Someone picks up.
Her voice drops into a hush.
"Hi… how are you?"
A pause.
"Well… you need to come here. I need your help."
Her tone grows heavier, more urgent.
"Whatever we feared—it is happening. We need to wipe Ahmaya's memory."
A silence, then she adds, almost whispering:
"No… it's different from last time. With her mother, it was different. I know it's hard to believe but she travelled back in time."
The house now feels heavier. Her grandmother's fear lingers in every corner.
.
It has been a day since the argument.
Locked in her room, Ahmaya paces like a restless bird. Her curiosity gnaws at her. She longs to know what is happening in Aokma's world now.
Then—a horn blares outside.
She rushes to the window. A car halts at the gate—an imported pajero, black, its chrome edges catching the last light of evening. The engine purrs low.
A middle aged man steps out. He is smoking the end of a cigarette, its ember glowing before he crushes it beneath his shoe.
He is tall, his frame lean but sharp. His clothes are not modern—he wears long, ink-dark coat that sways around his ankles, its fabric rough. The collar of his muted silk shirt carries faint embroidery. His hair is combed back, his jaw is defined, his eyes unreadable, too steady—as if he does not see things, but see through them.
Grandma comes out from the house, to welcome him. The man bends instantly, touching her feet in the Indian gesture of respect.
Ahmaya's breath catches. She knows. This man—this presence—has been summoned for her.
She races downstairs.
In the living room, her grandmother introduces him.
"Meet him. He is your distant uncle."
His eyes meet hers, dark and heavy, carrying a weight that makes her skin prickle. He says softly,
"Hello."
"Hi…" Ahmaya answers, uneasy.
Grandma excuses herself, retreating to the kitchen.
Ahmaya seizes the chance.
"Which uncle are you, exactly? I have never seen you in any family gathering."
"I am your distant…..distant uncle," he replies with a faint smile. His voice is low, his words precise.
Grandma returns with a tray of sweets and fruits, setting them carefully on the table. Ahmaya leans close to her in secrecy.
"Who is he, really?"
"Didn't I tell you? He is family."
"I know every uncle of mine."
Her grandmother's eyes narrow.
"Can you put aside your doubt for once? He will stay for a day or two. Behave."
They eat dinner together. Ahmaya notices him—every gesture, every glance. And she realizes he is also watching her, silently, his gaze is unsettling, like an old mirror reflecting more than it shows.
.
Night descends.
Ahmaya lies in bed, her body restless, her mind churning.
Hours pass.
Her heart begins to pound, too fast, too loud.
She opens her eyes.
"Ayani?" she whispers, her throat tight.
Ayani floats before her—her face wild, her hair tangled. Her presence carries the weight of a storm.
She grips Ahmaya's shoulders, her touch iron, shaking her violently. Her eyes blaze like fire.
"WHY? WHY DID YOU COME BACK?" Her voice shatters the stillness, furious, desperate.
"It was such an effort to send you there! YOU NEED TO GO BACK!"
Her scream echoes inside Ahmaya's skull, tearing through her.
Ahmaya tries to speak, but no sound comes.
Ayani's face is so close, her breath hot, her eyes burning with something between rage and sorrow.
Then—
Ahmaya's eyes snap open.
She lies in her bed. Alone. Drenched in sweat, her breath heavy, her chest burning.
It was a dream. But it is also something more— a message that does not end even after waking.