The dreams no longer felt like mere fragments of imagination. They were maps—guiding, nudging, leading Vihaan and Myra toward something unknown yet strangely familiar.
Neither of them spoke about it much at first. It was easier to brush off the visions as random dreams, a product of stress or coincidence. But when the same images repeated—when Myra saw the palace in her sleep and Vihaan sketched its outlines without knowing why—they could no longer ignore it.
One evening, as they sat by the bookstore's window, Myra sighed, flipping through an old history book she had absentmindedly picked up.
"It's in Rajasthan," she muttered.
Vihaan looked up from his notes. "What is?"
"The palace I keep dreaming about. I saw a painting of it once in a museum. It wasn't labeled, but I remember thinking it looked out of place—like something lost in time." She traced her finger over a sketch he had absentmindedly drawn. "And this? You've never been there, have you?"
Vihaan shook his head. "No. But I feel like I have."
They sat in silence for a moment, the unspoken question hanging between them.
"What if," Myra hesitated, "what if we go there?"
Vihaan exhaled slowly. "To Rajasthan?"
"To the place we keep seeing," she corrected. "Maybe it'll give us answers."
It sounded absurd. Chasing dreams across cities. But hadn't fate already brought them together in ways they couldn't explain?
A few days later, they found themselves booking train tickets.
To Rajasthan.
To the city where Satya and Saanvi had once uncovered the truth.