The air was still, yet something trembled inside him.
A faint thud echoed through the darkness — falling… falling…
And then, a voice that wasn't his own screamed soundlessly as the world collapsed beneath his feet.
Vyom's eyes snapped open.
The ceiling above him was familiar — cracked paint, a faint shadow of the fan swinging slightly in the moonlight — but his heart pounded like a wild drum. He sat up, gasping, the memory of the dream slipping away like water through his fingers.
He only remembered one thing: a fall.
From somewhere high.
And the eerie certainty that in that dream… he wasn't a child.
Vyom rubbed his face, his small palms trembling.
He was only six — too young to understand why dreams could feel so real. His breathing slowed, and as he turned toward the dim corner of his room, he froze.
There, near the window, lay a small doll.
It wasn't supposed to be there. His sister had left it in the attic days ago.
Its glassy eyes glinted faintly in the blue of the night.
And then — the doll spoke.
"Don't be scared, dear friend,"
it said in a voice soft as a lullaby.
"Just go to sleep."
Vyom's breath hitched. The doll's stitched mouth hadn't moved, but the words lingered in his ears like a whisper from somewhere else.
He pulled his blanket up to his chin, trembling yet strangely calm.
Something in that voice… felt familiar.
He closed his eyes again, and the night sank into silence.
A Few Days Ago
In a quiet corner of old Rajasthan, beneath the soft chime of clocks, stood a small workshop.
It was the home of Aravind Das, a watchmaker known across the town for crafting timepieces that looked as if they could hold memories. Each clock, each gear, had a soul of its own.
And in that little house, time wasn't just measured — it lived.
Vyom was born on a rainy afternoon, when thunder rolled over the rooftops and his mother, Mira, held him for the first time with tears in her eyes.
She was warmth itself — gentle, patient, and always smelling faintly of sandalwood.
She'd hum lullabies when he cried, and the whole world seemed to quiet down just to listen.
His grandmother, now in her sixties, was the storyteller of the house — a woman with silver hair tied in a neat bun, her voice carrying the wisdom of old times.
She spoke of gods who turned into mortals, of stars that were once people, and of souls who forgot their pasts when they were born again.
Vyom loved those stories more than anything else — especially the ones about reincarnation and fate.
"Every life," she'd tell him, tapping his forehead with a wrinkled finger,
"is a continuation of another dream. Maybe that's why some children remember things they never lived."
He didn't understand it back then. But those words would stay with him forever.
And then there was Aarika, his elder sister — six years older, endlessly protective, endlessly mischievous.
To Vyom, she was sunlight itself.
She tied his shoelaces before school, helped him hide his mistakes from their parents, and always said she'd "beat up" anyone who made him cry.
He adored her.
Their life was simple — filled with laughter, ticking clocks, and the soft echo of tools from their father's workshop.
Until that night.
The night of the dream.
Back in the present, the moon hung low.
Vyom stirred again in his sleep, whispering a name he didn't know he remembered.
"Aarika… watch out…"
A chill wind brushed past his window, and the doll on the floor tilted ever so slightly, as if watching him.
The faint ticking of his father's clocks filled the room — a dozen hearts beating together — yet one sound was off.
One of the clocks ticked backward.
The doll's shadow grew longer across the wall.
"Go to sleep, Vyom…"
whispered that same soft, distant voice.
"It's not time yet."
Vyom's eyelids fluttered.
In the thin boundary between waking and dreaming, he saw a flash — a tall figure falling through endless skies, reaching toward him.
A reflection of himself.
A man with his face — older, broken — whispering something before vanishing into the dark.
And just before he sank back into unconsciousness, he heard one last sound.
The ticking stopped.
Time, for the first time in his small life, stood still.
[End of Chapter 1 – The Whisper Beyond the Dream]