Ishani woke up screaming.
Lights flickering.
Her throat burned, her chest ached, and her small fingers were clenched so tightly into the bedsheet that her knuckles had turned white. For a moment, she didn't know where she was. The room was dark, silent—too silent. The kind of silence that always followed the dream.
She was three again.
The smell came first.
Metallic. Thick. Warm.
Blood.
In the dream, the house was brighter than it ever was in real life. Chandeliers glowed like false suns, their light spilling over marble floors that were supposed to be spotless. Ishani remembered trying to run, her tiny feet slipping as something wet touched her soles. She looked down.
Red.
It wasn't supposed to be there.
Her mother's bangles lay shattered near the staircase, glass mixed with blood. Ishani didn't understand what death was, but she understood stillness. Her parents weren't moving. No matter how much she cried, no matter how loudly she called, they didn't turn toward her.
Voices echoed through the hall—familiar, twisted by greed.
Relatives.
Smiling mouths speaking gentle lies while holding something sharp behind their backs.
Someone screamed. It wasn't her mother this time. It was her brother.
Seven years old. Too young to stand in front of danger, yet standing anyway. His small body shielded hers, arms spread wide as if he could block the world itself. His eyes—those eyes—weren't afraid.
They were furious.
Words poured from his mouth, fast and sharp, striking deeper than blades ever could. Ishani didn't understand the words then, but she felt them. The air shifted. The men hesitated. Fear flickered across their faces.
And then—
A gunshot.
The sound tore through the dream every time.
Her other brother grabbed her hand and ran. He didn't cry. He didn't scream. His grip was steady, too steady for a child. He didn't look back even once. Not when blood splashed against the walls. Not when screams followed them down the corridor. Not even when the house—their house—fell silent behind them.
As they escaped through the door, Ishani turned her head.
She saw it.
Blood soaking into the marble. Blood crawling up the stairs. Blood seeping into the walls, as if the house itself was trying to remember.
And then everything went dark.
Ishani sucked in a sharp breath and sat up.
The dream faded slowly, like blood being washed away with water—never truly gone, only lighter. She pressed a trembling hand against her chest. Her heart was racing, pounding as if it remembered before her mind did.
She was not three anymore.
The house was gone. The past was buried. That's what she told herself every day.
But dreams didn't listen.
Neither did blood.
Outside her room, somewhere down the corridor, a door creaked. Footsteps approached—quiet, familiar. Someone paused outside her door, just long enough to listen.
He always knew when she dreamed.
Ishani wiped her face quickly, swallowing the lump in her throat. She would not cry. Crying had never changed anything. Crying hadn't saved their parents. Crying hadn't stopped the blood.
Years ago, the night stole their family.
What it left behind was far more dangerous.
The door opened softly.
Ishani didn't turn her head. She didn't need to.
The lights above her flickered once .
Then again.
A slow, uneven pulse—like the room itself was breathing with her grief.
Dheer stepped inside.
The flickering stopped the moment he entered fully, as if something unseen had bowed to his presence.
He closed the door without a sound.
"Ishani," he said gently.
Her name, spoken by him, was different. It always was.
She hugged her knees tighter, staring at the far wall. "I'm fine."
A lie.
Dheer didn't call it out. He never did.
He moved closer, sitting on the edge of the bed, close enough for warmth but not close enough to feel like a cage. His voice lowered—not in volume, but in weight.
"You were dreaming," he said, not as a question.
The bedside lamp flickered.
Ishani's breath hitched.
Dheer exhaled slowly, the way he always did before speaking again. The air around them felt thicker, heavier—like invisible hands smoothing rough edges.
"Breathe," he murmured.
One word.
Her chest obeyed before her mind could argue.
Inhale.
Exhale.
The trembling in her fingers softened. The tight knot behind her ribs loosened just enough to hurt less.
Dheer's eyes never left her face. He watched every micro-expression, every flicker of fear she tried to hide. He chose his next words carefully. He always did.
"It's over," he said.
Not was.
Is.
Her eyes finally shifted toward him, glassy, red-rimmed. "It never is."
The lights trembled—but this time, only once.
Dheer reached out, resting his fingers lightly against her wrist. His touch was warm, grounding. His voice slid in smoothly, wrapping around her thoughts like silk over steel.
"You're safe," he said.
Her heartbeat slowed.
"You survived," he continued. "You always do."
Her throat burned, but the tears refused to fall. The storm inside her dulled, not gone—never gone—but pushed farther back, like waves retreating under a stronger tide.
Dheer withdrew his hand slowly. He never stayed too long. Control was easy. Trust was harder.
"Neer's awake," he added casually. "He's pretending not to listen."
A faint, reluctant smile tugged at the corner of Ishani's lips.
Dheer stood. As he turned toward the door, his expression changed—softness draining away, leaving something sharper beneath. Something colder.
Outside this room, he reminded himself, the world didn't deserve gentleness.
Behind him, the lights stayed steady.
For now.