Dream.
____
After drifting restlessly in his sleep, Hira found himself surrounded by darkness.
It was not the kind of darkness that came with closed eyes, but something deeper—thicker, almost tangible.
As his awareness returned, he wondered if he had regained consciousness inside a dream. The thought unsettled him, yet curiosity pushed him forward.
"Where am I?"
To understand where he was, Hira began to move.
He walked blindly through the void, guided by instinct alone. Time lost its meaning. Minutes—or perhaps hours—passed without change, until at last he noticed something ahead: a faint glow emerging at the far edge of the darkness.
Light.
Drawn to it, Hira quickened his pace. The closer he came, the stronger the glow grew, until the darkness finally peeled away and he stepped into the light.
The sight that greeted him made his breath catch.
He was standing on a battlefield.
The ground beneath his feet was soaked in blood. Bodies lay scattered everywhere—broken, torn, and unrecognizable. Severed limbs and shattered armor were strewn across the land, as if the earth itself had been fed to a merciless weapon. The air felt heavy, thick with the scent of iron and death.
Then came the sounds.
Whispers crept into his ears—cries, pleas, and broken voices layered upon one another. Some begged for mercy. Others screamed in pain. Many simply wept.
The voices wrapped around his mind, pressing into his thoughts.
"What the hell is this?"
Hira staggered, nausea rising in his chest. The horror of the scene overwhelmed him, his vision blurring as his consciousness began to slip. Just as the world started to fade, something caught his eye.
A short distance away, a figure stood apart from the carnage.
The man was tall and imposing, his silhouette unmistakable even through the haze. In his hands, he held a massive axe—its blade dripping, freshly stained. Blood ran down the weapon, coating his fingers and arms, as though it had become an extension of the slaughter itself.
The figure did not move.
He simply stood there, silent and unmoving, surrounded by death—as if he belonged to it.
And then—
Hira's awareness collapsed, but he didn't see the figure glancing at the place where he stood.
The darkness surged back in, swallowing the battlefield whole.
. . . .
It was 8:00 a.m.
When Hira still had not come downstairs, Shanti began to worry. He usually woke up early, often around five or six in the morning.
By this time, he would have already been back from his morning run and helping her in the house.
"Hira."
She called out his name from downstairs.
"…"
There was no response.
Unease crept into her chest. Setting aside what she was doing, Shanti went upstairs and stopped outside his room. She knocked on the door—once, twice, then several times more.
Still nothing.
Her concern turning into fear, she slowly pushed the door open and stepped inside.
Hira was lying on the bed, still asleep.
At first glance, it seemed ordinary, but the moment she moved closer, she realized something was wrong. His body was shaking violently, as if he were trapped in the grip of a severe nightmare. His breathing was uneven, shallow, and strained.
The bedsheet beneath him was completely soaked with sweat, as though someone had poured a bucket of water over him. His hair clung to his forehead, and his face was pale, twisted with distress.
Shanti froze.
Seeing him in such a condition sent panic rushing through her. She hurried to his side and called his name loudly, again and again, her voice trembling as fear tightened its hold.
"Hira… Hira, wake up!"
. . . .
The first thing Hira noticed when he opened his eyes was the light.
It was dim, washed in orange and gold, filtering through the window in long, tired streaks. For a brief, disoriented moment, he assumed it was early morning.
His body felt heavy, as though he had been dragged back from somewhere far away, and his head throbbed with a dull ache.
Then fragments returned.
Blood.
Too much blood.
The image of bodies torn apart, the ground soaked red—and somewhere within that chaos, a figure standing still, holding a giant axe. The face remained unclear, swallowed by shadow, but the weight of its presence lingered, pressing against his chest.
'I think I have seen 'him' before, but where?'
Hira swallowed and tried to sit up.
Before his thoughts could spiral any further, a familiar voice cut through the haze.
"Hira…"
He turned toward the door just as Shanti entered the room, wet towels folded over her arm. The moment her eyes met his, and she saw him awake, the towels slipped from her grip and fell onto the bed beside him.
She crossed the room in a hurry and pulled him into a tight embrace.
For a second, Hira froze, surprised. Then he felt her hands tremble against his back.
"Do you have any idea how worried I was?" she said, her voice breaking despite her attempt to sound calm. "You scared me half to death."
"I'm… fine," he managed to say, though the words felt hollow even to him.
Shanti pulled back just enough to look at his face, her eyes searching him for signs of weakness or pain. Satisfied, or at least reassured enough, she helped him settle back against the pillows.
"You were unconscious since morning," she said softly. "I found you shaking in your sleep. No matter how much I called you, you wouldn't wake up."
Hira frowned. "Morning?"
Only then did it sink in. The light outside the window wasn't dawn.
It was evening.
"Yes," she nodded. "You didn't wake up the whole day. I kept changing the towels, giving you water. You were burning up." The thought of calling the doctor still haunts her.
To lighten the mood, she informs him, "Shweta came to see you today."
Hira's gaze snapped back to her. "Shweta?"
"She waited for a while," she said gently. "But when she saw your condition, she said she'd come tomorrow instead. She didn't want to disturb you."
Hira let out a slow breath and leaned his head back against the pillow. His body felt weak, drained, as if the dream—no, the vision—had taken a toll on his soul.
Outside, the sun continued its quiet descent.
A.N. - So any guess who that figure might be.
Svapnam means, Dream.