The dreams didn't stop.
If anything, they became more vivid.
Vihaan would wake up in the middle of the night, his heartbeat erratic, his mind flooded with images that weren't his—but felt like they belonged to him.
A name whispered in the wind. Meera.
A blade gleaming under the moonlight.
Blood staining cold stone floors.
And a voice—his own, but not his own—calling out a name he had never spoken before.
"Meera!"
He could feel the desperation, the urgency. And every time, he woke up gasping for breath, as if he had lived through it all.
But the strangest part?
Myra was dreaming too.
Visions That Weren't Just Dreams
One evening, as Myra sat across from him in the bookstore, her fingers tracing invisible patterns on the wooden table, she murmured, "I think I'm remembering things."
Vihaan tensed. "Remembering?"
She nodded, eyes distant. "I see people I don't know. A man… no, a boy. He had ink-stained hands. He used to sketch—beautiful sketches. And I knew him. I loved him."
Her voice faltered at that last part.
Vihaan's grip tightened around the edge of the table.
Ink-stained hands.
A boy who sketched.
His own dreams flashed before his eyes—his hands, charcoal smudged, drawing the same girl over and over again.
"Myra," his voice was barely a whisper, "what else do you see?"
She swallowed. "A palace. A garden. And a man with cruel eyes. He… he was watching us. He wanted something, but I don't know what."
Vihaan's blood ran cold.
He had seen the same man.
A shadow lurking behind them. A threat woven into their past.
The dreams weren't just dreams anymore.
They were pieces of something lost. A life they had forgotten.
And now, it was coming back.