"Amidst the far lands of the shadows, you have emerged." An echoing voice reverberates as a deep whisper. "There is no god, no spirits and no desire. There's only you. There's only your pain, your sorrow, your regrets that echo through you like a ringing tone of a fleeting voice. Let me ask you once again before you leave: What do you hope to see in the dark someday?"
The voice suddenly got cut as Arnav woke up from his sleep. His face was drenched with sweat, as his breath raced in a panicked way. It was that dream again. The same deep whisper, the same tone, the same message. He picked up a plastic bottle of water from a small table situated at the left side of his bed.
He was never really used to having dreams in his 19 year old life. A lot of times he would just sleep and wake up with no remembrance of what he saw. Bad memory? Maybe but most certainly not a bad sleep!
Arnav poured the last drop of water into his mouth, the bottle making a hollow sound as he tilted it upward. He let out a soft sigh, his heart still pounding from the dream. The kitchen was silent, save for the faint hum of the refrigerator. The overhead light flickered slightly, casting fleeting shadows on the walls. He rinsed the bottle absentmindedly and placed it under the tap to refill.
The coldness of the water seeped into his fingertips, grounding him momentarily. But as the bottle filled, his mind drifted. That voice—it lingered like a phantom, a haunting presence in the corners of his thoughts. "What do you hope to see in the dark someday?" It was a question that clawed at him, a question he never wanted to answer.
Bottle in hand, Arnav trudged back to his room. On impulse, he grabbed his phone from the nightstand, unlocking it with a quick swipe. The glow of the screen illuminated his face, and he squinted at the brightness. Scrolling through Instagram, he stopped on a picture.
It was his ex-best friend, Vedant. Vedant, laughing with a group of people on a sunlit beach, their arms slung around each other, faces carefree and full of life. Arnav's thumb hovered over the screen, the caption staring back at him: "Life's better with the right people."
His chest tightened. That used to be him in those photos, him and Vedant cracking inside jokes, planning endless adventures. But it all unraveled the day they fought—over something so trivial yet so devastating. A part of him wanted to blame Vedant, but deep down, he knew his own anger and pride had played a role.
Arnav set the phone down, his throat tightening. He felt the old ache of abandonment creeping in, a sharp pang in his gut. He wanted to sleep, to escape this heaviness, but his thoughts refused to quiet.
He tossed and turned for what felt like hours, staring at the ceiling, shadows dancing as headlights passed outside. Frustrated, he threw off the blanket and moved to the living room. The couch groaned as he sank into it, remote in hand. The TV blinked to life, its blue light washing over the room.
Flicking through channels, he landed on the news. The headline caught his attention immediately: "The Mystery of the Flickering Sky—Three Years Later."
Arnav froze. He remembered it vividly. That single second when his world had shifted. He'd been on the balcony of his old apartment, fresh from the fight with Vedant. The sky had split open with light, blinding and pure, leaving him dazed. That same day, his five-year relationship had ended. That same day, he had locked himself away, severing ties with the old world of his.
The screen buzzed, the anchor's voice dissolving into static. Arnav frowned, pressing buttons on the remote, but the static persisted. Black and white grains danced on the screen, accompanied by a faint buzzing sound that grew louder.
Then he felt it.
Two hands, cold and coarse, wrapped around his neck from behind. The texture was unlike anything human—rough, burnt, and grotesque, the nails long and jagged. A shiver ran down his spine as his body froze in place.
The grip tightened. His breathing hitched, mirroring the erratic static of the TV. He wanted to turn, to see what was behind him, but his body refused to obey.
The breathing began—hot, slow, and deliberate—on the back of his neck. The room felt darker, colder, the static now deafening.
Then, the voice. Deep, distorted, and eerily familiar, it whispered into his right ear, "You don't see the rain, do you?"
Arnav's eyes widened, his heart pounding like a drumbeat in his chest. He tried to scream, but no sound came.
And just as suddenly as it began, the grip vanished. The room fell silent. The TV screen flickered back to the news anchor, calmly discussing theories about the DrySpheres.
Arnav sat frozen on the couch, his hand trembling as it rose to touch his neck. The imprint of the hands was gone, but the sensation lingered. He stared at the TV, his mind racing, the whisper replaying over and over.
"You don't see the rain, do you?"