The clock struck 1:00 AM in Trivandrum, and Nair Kalamandalam slept like an old serpent coiled under moonlight—everything still, everything breathing quietly.
Everything except Raaghav Nair.
The boy lay wide-eyed on the mat, chest tight, breath shallow, sweat glistening on his forehead despite the night breeze sneaking through the open windows. Sleep refused to claim him—not because he wasn't tired, but because something older, darker, and rooted in his seventh year had clawed its way back into his mind.
It began the way it always had.
A van, headlights slicing through a pitch-black road.
The shudder of metal.
The scream of twisting tires.
And then a plunge—a roaring descent into nothing.
Raaghav felt the impact before he heard it. The world shattered around him: glass exploding, metal folding, gravity dragging him through the air like a rag doll. Then—rock. Sharp, cold, merciless rock. His small body wedged between boulders, blood snaking across his arms and face like red rivers. Pain throbbed through every nerve. His lungs tightened, refusing to pull in air. He gasped, but nothing came. Darkness pressed down on him, heavy and absolute.
And then, impossibly, the darkness moved.
A swarm of fireflies—hundreds, maybe thousands—spiraled around him. Their glow flickered like stars trapped in a whirlwind. In that glow, for the briefest breath of time, he saw something impossible: a petrified butterfly suspended in the swarm, wings frozen mid-flutter, as if time itself had given up.
The light intensified. Wrapped him. Burned him with a warmth that didn't belong in a nightmare.
He tried to draw breath—failed.
His chest locked.
His ribs screamed.
His vision collapsed inward—
—and somewhere far away, someone shook him.
"Raaghav! Da, breathe! Breathe!"
Ramanidharan Nair's voice smashed through the dream like a lifeline thrown into a storm. But Raaghav didn't wake. His body arched, his fingers curled, and the same panicked wheeze from his childhood nightmare escaped his lips.
Ramanidharan reacted the way only an elder brother could—with speed born from fear.
He grabbed the copper tumbler by the bedside and threw water on Raaghav's face.
Raaghav jerked violently, coughing, pulling in a broken half-breath. Ramanidharan didn't waste a second—he shoved the asthma inhaler into his brother's hand and guided it to his mouth.
One puff.
Then another.
Then a desperate third.
Slowly, painfully, Raaghav's lungs loosened. His chest unknotted. The world steadied.
Ramanidharan dragged him out to the front yard, where the cool night air wrapped around them. Crickets hummed. Coconut leaves rustled overhead. The Kalamandalam, timeless and ancient, watched silently as Raaghav fought his way back into full consciousness.
After long minutes, Raaghav finally breathed normally.
"Go sleep, anna," he whispered, voice scratched raw but steady. "I'm okay now."
Ramanidharan hesitated. The kind that only brothers understand. Then, reluctantly, he returned inside.
Raaghav sat alone on the stone steps, letting the night wash over him.
He exhaled—a long, slow breath.
And that's when he saw them.
A flicker of gold. Then another. Then a hundred more, rising from the shadows like sparks escaping from an invisible fire.
Fireflies.
A whole swarm.
The same swarm.
Raaghav froze. His heartbeat stuttered. His mind tried to reject what his eyes were seeing because logic had no business with what was happening in front of him.
The fireflies were not just wandering through the yard.
They were circling the Kalamandalam.
Deliberate. Synchronized. Purposeful.
Just like in his dream.
Raaghav's skin prickled. His breath hitched. For a moment, the world tilted—not from fear, but from the unmistakable certainty that something had followed him out of the nightmare.
Something old.
Something luminous.
Something that wanted his attention.
And in the quiet, ancient night of Trivandrum, Raaghav Nair understood one brutal truth:
The nightmare wasn't returning.
It had never left.