After that close call on the balcony, I couldn't shake off an inexplicable connection between Arya and my dreams—the shadows seemed to intertwine our fates somehow.
The next day in history class, Mr. Kapoor continued with tales of ancient queens who faced trials much like those in our own lives—a reminder that history often mirrored reality in unexpected ways.
"Rani Padmini chose to fight for her honor rather than submit to tyranny," he stated passionately. "Her story teaches us about resilience."
I pondered this deeply; perhaps it was time for me to confront my challenges head-on—starting with understanding Arya better and unraveling whatever secrets were hidden beneath his charming exterior.
On the way to share
"Did you see how intense Arya was during class?" Julia asked, her eyes sparkling with curiosity as we settled at a table. "He's like a walking mystery."
I couldn't help but smile at her enthusiasm. "Yeah, he has that vibe. It's like there's something deeper going on with him."
"Deeper? Like a secret past or something?" she teased, wiggling her eyebrows. "Maybe he's a prince in disguise!"
I laughed, but my thoughts drifted back to the shadows and whispers from my dreams. "I don't know... but I feel this strange connection to him like our fates are intertwined."
Julia leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "You should ask him out! What's the worst that could happen?"
Before I could respond, I caught sight of Arya across the room. He was surrounded by a group of girls, one of whom was handing him a rose accompanied by a letter. My heart sank slightly as I watched him accept it with an enigmatic smile.
Just then, I heard Arya's voice cut through the chatter. "I hate roses," he said in a deep, almost playful tone that sent shivers down my spine. The girl looked taken aback, but before she could respond, Arya turned his gaze away from her and toward me.
In that brief moment, our eyes locked again—his expression shifting from amusement to something more serious. It felt as if he was silently acknowledging our shared connection, reminding me of that night on the balcony.
But just as quickly as he had looked at me, he vanished into the crowd with that same mysterious smile on his face—a fleeting reminder of our encounter that left me breathless.
"Did you see that?" Julia exclaimed, breaking my reverie. "He just disappeared!"
"I know!" I replied, trying to mask my confusion with excitement. "It's like he knows something we don't."
"I think you need to find out what that is," she said with a grin. "This is getting interesting!"
A Visit from ?....
That evening at home, I settled into the cozy nook of my living room, the familiar scent of old books and polished wood enveloping me as I flipped through family albums for inspiration for our ancient cultures.
The pages were filled with faded memories, but one photograph caught my eye—
an image of my mother dressed as a queen at a vibrant festival long ago. The intricate details of her costume—the shimmering fabric, the delicate jewelry—were breathtaking, but it was her face that sent shivers down my spine.
She looked so much like me.
As I traced the outline of her smile with my finger, a wave of emotions crashed over me—love for my parents mixed with an overwhelming fear of losing them.
What if I never truly understood who they were? The thought tightened around my chest like a vice. I closed my eyes tightly against the tears threatening to spill over.
"Why does this feel so heavy?" I whispered to myself, feeling the weight of history pressing down on me.
Suddenly, something extraordinary happened.🫨🫨🤯A warm glow enveloped me, radiating from the photograph as if it were alive. It was a sensation unlike anything I had ever experienced—like magic coursing through my veins, awakening something dormant inside me.
What is this feeling? Is it real? My heart raced as I opened my eyes, half-expecting to see some ethereal figure standing before me.
"Mom?" I called out softly, almost hoping she would appear from the shadows of memory and comfort me. But there was only silence.
I felt a rush of questions swirling in my mind like leaves caught in an autumn breeze.
What did she experience at that festival? What secrets did she carry? My thoughts turned inward, grappling with the idea that perhaps there was more to my lineage than I had ever known.
As I gazed at the photograph of my mother, the memories flooded back like a tide, both comforting and painful. She had passed away when I was just eight years old, but the imprint of her presence lingered in my heart. I could still recall her soft, melodic voice, a gentle lullaby that would wrap around me like a warm blanket on chilly nights.
"Sweetheart, always follow your dreams," she would whisper, her tone filled with encouragement and love. Even now, I could almost hear her laughter echoing in the corners of my mind, a sound that brought both solace and sorrow.
Since I turned 18 In my dreams, I often saw her adorned in exquisite jewelry—an intricate gold necklace that glimmered like sunlight on water. It was a family heirloom, passed down through generations, and she wore it with such grace that it seemed to elevate her spirit. The necklace featured delicate filigree work, intertwined with tiny emeralds that sparkled like stars against the night sky.
I remembered how she would let me touch it, allowing me to feel the cool metal against my small fingers. "One day, this will be yours,"
she had said with a wistful smile, though I had never fully grasped what that meant until after she was gone.
Now, as I looked at her photograph, the absence of that necklace felt like a gaping hole in my heart.
Where had it gone? Had it been lost in the chaos of grief? Or perhaps it was hidden away to protect its beauty from the harshness of reality?
The thought stirred a mix of longing and sadness within me. I wish I could ask her about it. What stories did that necklace hold? What secrets had it witnessed over the years?
In dreams where she appeared—vivid and alive—she often wore that necklace, its emeralds glowing softly as if whispering ancient tales. Those dreams felt more real than any memory I possessed; they were fragments of a life I could barely remember but desperately longed to reclaim.
As I held the photograph close to my chest, I felt an overwhelming urge to reconnect with her legacy. What if the necklace held answers about our family's past? What if it was tied to the very mysteries I was beginning to uncover?
With each passing moment, the shadows from my dreams felt less like nightmares and more like guides leading me toward understanding—an invitation to explore not just my lineage but also the depths of my own heart.
In that quiet room filled with memories and echoes of laughter long gone, I made a silent vow: I would seek out the truth about my mother's life and the treasures left behind—both tangible and intangible—because in doing so, I would finally come to understand myself.