The morning air carried with it a softness, as though the world had not yet stirred into the harsh edges of reality. Light filtered through the cream curtains in Ayaan's room, golden and slow, casting shadows that danced across the floorboards like whispers of a forgotten lullaby. He sat at his desk near the window, the old fan above him groaning into motion, and a steaming cup of chai in his hands. A chill clung to the porcelain, but the tea warmed his palms, grounding him.
The dream still lingered—like smoke that refused to disperse.
He picked up the pen lying next to his journal, its spine already showing signs of wear from constant handling. With a deep breath, he opened to the next clean page and began to write.
> Journal Entry
Date: April 20
The dream came again last night. The same tree, the same voice. But this time I could feel the earth beneath my bare feet. It was damp. Real. Too real. And the fire... it wasn't just a symbol. It knew me.
I was small again, maybe five or six. The voice wasn't threatening. It felt like someone I once trusted. Like I had made a promise I could no longer remember.
Am I losing it? Is any of this real? The envelope, the symbol in Amma Razia's storeroom, the figure beneath the jamun tree... It could all be in my head.
He paused, setting the pen down for a moment, watching the ink dry. A thought circled in his mind, heavy and unrelenting.
What if I'm just remembering wrong? What if this is grief, trauma, hallucination?
He looked at the steaming tea and sighed.
"Ayaan," he said aloud to himself, "get a grip."
With an effort, he stood up and walked to the mirror beside his wardrobe. His reflection stared back—messy hair, dark circles under his eyes, a beard that had grown out of neglect. But his eyes… they were alert. Searching.
He was not just a man haunted by dreams. He was an architect.
His fingers traced the outline of the design sketches pinned on the corkboard above his desk—homes, sanctuaries, mosques, gardens. His mind loved structure, order. And yet, his own life was slowly unthreading.
Still, he had work to do. Life didn't pause for haunted memories.
---
The sun had risen higher by the time Ayaan stepped outside, leather sketchbook tucked under his arm. He had intended to head to the old market to find a specific type of limestone he needed for a project, but as he walked past the lanes of his childhood, nostalgia caught him by the throat.
It was the same street. The same rusted gates. The same chipping walls lined with bougainvillea. But the people...
"Is that Ayaan beta?"
An elderly man sitting outside a small bakery squinted up at him. Ayaan forced a smile and nodded.
"As-salamu Alaikum, Chacha Farid."
"Walaikum assalam, beta. Long time."
Farid gave him a warm smile, but it was not echoed by everyone else. A group of women walking past on the opposite side of the road averted their gazes. One of them, an older woman in a pale blue dupatta, whispered something to her companion while glancing sharply at him.
Another man—tall, with salt-and-pepper hair—paused before muttering, "Back from the city, huh?" under his breath. Not cruel, but cold.
Ayaan tried to shake it off. But the weight of being remembered for things not fully understood wrapped around his chest.
He knew why they stared. They remembered. The boy who had once stood in the shadows, laughing and whispering to things no one else could see.
He made his way toward the market, ducking into a quieter alley where the buzz of gossip couldn't follow.
---
By afternoon, Ayaan found himself sitting at a tea stall, flipping through his sketchbook. Lines became forms. Forms became structures. It was meditative, grounding. His mind wandered, but his hand remained steady.
A page caught his attention—one he didn't remember drawing.
It showed a large open courtyard, arched with graceful pillars and intricate tilework. A tree stood in the middle, oddly familiar. But it wasn't just any courtyard. It looked like part of a masjid.
He stared at it, heart beating a little faster.
When did I draw this?
He flipped to the next page—an architectural layout of a house. One kanal in size. Traditional design. High ceilings. Verandas. Rooms facing an inner garden.
He hadn't designed this recently. And yet, the style felt deeply personal.
Closing the sketchbook, he tried to shake the chill crawling up his spine.
---
Later that evening, back at home, he wandered into his mother's old room. It had remained untouched since her passing. Dust clung to everything, but her scent lingered—rosewater, turmeric, and something he could only describe as warmth.
He found an old wooden box beneath her bed. Inside were prayer beads, faded letters, and photographs of a time that now felt like a dream. Ayaan pulled out one picture. His parents. Young. Smiling. Standing outside a mosque he didn't recognize.
He turned it over. The back read in her elegant handwriting: "Where promises began."
Another chill.
His eyes shifted to a small, folded note tucked in the corner of the box. It was addressed to him.
> My dear Ayaan,
If you've found this, then maybe the dreams have begun. I never wanted this for you, but destiny has always been strange in our bloodline. Go slow. Seek the truth, but with patience.
Not everything in the dark is meant to harm. Some shadows are waiting to be set free.
He dropped the note, breath catching in his throat.
The dreams. The tree. The fire. The voice.
She knew.
---
That night, Ayaan stayed awake for a long time. He sat at his desk, journal open, pen scratching furiously across the paper.
> Journal Entry
Date: April 20 – Night
The people here remember. They look at me as if I never left. As if the boy I was never grew up. The boy who whispered to shadows.
I found a photo of a mosque. One I don't recognize. Yet, I feel like I've stood there before. I also found a design I don't remember drawing. A masjid and a one-kanal house. They appeared in my sketchbook, without memory.
Ammi left me a note. She knew. She warned me. But warned me gently. There's no fear in her words, only guidance.
I don't know what to believe anymore.
I think I need to visit Uncle Faheem. He was close to Baba. Maybe he knows what this is. Maybe he can tell me what happened before I forgot.
He paused. Then added:
> Or maybe… it's time I go back to the graveyard.
He closed the journal and lay in bed, unable to shake the unease from his chest.
Outside, the jamun tree stood still. Yet, in the silver light of the moon, a shadow leaned against it, watching.
The wind didn't blow. But the leaves rustled.
And Ayaan slept with his fists clenhed while a figure watched over him from the shadows of his room.