January 10, 2024
The morning was calm, wrapped in the gentle embrace of nature. Birds sang outside, their melodies weaving through the soft rustling of the morning breeze. Sunlight filtered through the window, casting golden streaks across the room, painting warmth onto the walls and the dreamcatcher swaying lightly in the breeze.
The alarm blared relentlessly and a boy lay asleep on the bed, his breath steady yet uneven, trapped in the depths of a dream. His lips moved, forming words that never fully escaped, murmurs laced with unease. Next to him, the table held simple objects—a diary, a pen, a water bottle, and a pair of specs. Ordinary belongings of an ordinary life. Everything in the room whispered of simplicity.
The steady rhythm of footsteps approached the room, growing louder with each step. The door burst open with force, swinging inward as a lively presence filled the space.
A girl—Shivani, around fifteen, stepped inside, her black hair falling gently around her charming face.
She moved to the desk where the alarm blared without mercy, and with a flick of her fingers, silenced it. Both hands settled on her hip, her brows lifting with disbelief at the sight before her.
Without hesitation, she marched toward the bed, gripping the bedsheet with both hands. In one swift motion, she yanked it away.
Bhairava jolted awake with a scream, sitting upright in bed, breath ragged, eyes darting around the room as if the nightmare hadn't yet released him. His breaths were fast and uneven, eyes wide and flooded with fear, sweat soaked the collar of his shirt.
Shivani stumbled backward, startled by the intensity of his outburst, her heart pounding as she watched her brother shake under the weight of a dream. Her expressive face held a mix of alarm and quiet worry.
For a moment, Bhairava didn't know where he was. His eyes scanned the room, wild and fragmented. The curtain. The corner chair. The walls.
"What was that?" his mind echoed, unable to anchor to reality.
And then—he saw her.
His sister. Standing still. Her worry etched across her face like soft rainclouds.
His breathing slowed.
She slowly approached, her eyes gentle, hands rising to ask in silent sign language:
-- "What happened?"
Bhairava looked at her for a moment. The question settled. Her concern wrapped around him.
He placed a trembling hand on his head and forced a smile, though it barely held.
"Just a bad dream," he muttered, voice low.
He glanced at her, the tension still lingering. "What are you doing in my room?"
Shivani's brows furrowed. She pointed firmly at the clock on the table, her face marked by frustration. Her hands moved quickly: -- "It's getting late. If you won't come, I'll leave alone and you can explain to Mom."
Bhairava let out a slow exhale, locking eyes with her. "Yeah, fine. Don't worry. I'll be there soon."
She hesitated, her gaze narrowing, searching him, reading every nuance for honesty.
He held her stare. "Believe me."
After a beat, she turned sharply and stormed out, her silent footsteps trailing tension in their wake.
Bhairava stepped into the washroom, his movements slow. The tap squealed faintly as he turned it, and cold water streamed into the sink. He cupped his hands beneath the rush and splashed his face, letting the chill bite into his skin.
Droplets clung to his cheeks, trailing down in erratic paths.
He leaned forward, both hands braced on the edge of the basin, and stared at the reflection in the mirror.
His eyes were sunken. His breath—uneven. There was a twitch in his jaw, like a question locked behind his teeth.
He stared at himself. "What was that just now?" he whispered. "Did I miss something? Am I doing it right?"
His tired eyes held questions "I was nervous… but I don't know why." "What happened?" "Why?" "Why can't I remember anything?"
His hands tightened and trembled slightly on the edge of the sink; knuckles pale from pressure. His eyes dropped to the back of his hand there is letter on his hand.
"A"
A symbol. Self-written and intentional.
"Am I doing it right? Why can't I remember anything?" the thought running through his mind.
Then, with a slow inhale, Bhairava shook his head and whispered to himself:
"Anyways… probably just a bad dream. I don't want to remember it." The thought gave him a comfort.
He stretched, the stiffness in his body fading little by little. He moved quickly, grabbing fresh clothes and heading to the shower.
After a hot shower and a rushed comb-through of his hair, he threw on his clothes with increasing urgency. The clock was ticking, and the distant possibility of Shivani's wrath loomed larger by the second.
Across the table, the diary sat quiet—its cover slightly lifted from use, pages inside holding whispers of days past. The pen lay like a weight atop it, as if daring him to remember.
He stood there, motionless for a beat. Then sighed, long and low.
"We can skip today," he muttered.