[ Location: Edge of the Old Banyan Grove – Dusk ]
The wind whispered low through the twisted roots of the banyan, as if the forest held its breath.
Aarav sat cross-legged at the base of the old tree, where roots like elephant trunks sprawled outward, gripping earth and memory alike. His breath had softened. For the first time since the trials began, he wasn't waiting for a voice, a vision, or a verdict. Just silence. And it was enough.
The wounded stranger — his guide, or perhaps just a mirror — had not stirred for hours. His breath, shallow but steady, was the only sound that tethered Aarav to the present.
The banyan leaves above danced with the golden flicker of dusk, shadows stretching like ghostly limbs. Somewhere between earth and sky, sleep took him.
Dreamscape
He stood before the tree again — only now, it was burning. Not with flames, but with memory.
A voice rose from the roots, deep and resonant:
"Until the root is known, no fruit shall endure."
Aarav turned — the forest around him dissolved into darkness. And from that dark, a cradle appeared, swinging on an unseen breeze. Empty.
He stepped forward. The moment he touched it, the world collapsed inward.
He fell — not down, but back. Backward through years, through thought, through time.
He woke with a start.
Chest rising fast. Skin damp. The banyan above no longer glowed — it loomed.
His fingers touched the soil beneath. Still there. Still real.
But something from the dream clung to him, like dust on wet skin.
His eyes scanned the silent forest — but his mind had already slipped backward, to a moment long buried.
Flashback – A Memory That Wasn't Always His
He was five, maybe six.
A cracked floor. A smoky room. A woman's voice, soft but sharp:
"He's not like the others. Too quiet. Too strange."
Then footsteps. A man's heavy breath. Silence. Then the door closing.
And little Aarav — curled on a mat too thin for the cold — watching dust float through the window like lost fireflies.
He hadn't cried. Not then.
He had just listened — to the sound of others living in the next room, like he wasn't really there.
Aarav blinked the memory away, his throat dry.
What had that been? A real moment — or something shaped by time and emotion?
He had no answers.
But somewhere, deep beneath the banyan roots and his own skin, a hunger stirred.
Not for food.
Not even for peace.
But for belonging.
The stranger beside him stirred faintly, lips parting in some half-formed dream.
Aarav leaned in, as if expecting a whisper — a name, a secret, a sign. But there was only breath.
Still, that breath was enough. Enough to say: This is not the end.
Above them, a single leaf detached, drifting down between them, landing in the soil — neither his, nor the stranger's. Just the earth's.
🌌 [ End of Chapter 15 ]
🧠 Was the cradle in the dream a symbol of memory, or something deeper?
💭 Drop your theories in the comments
— Aarav might not remember, but you might.
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❤️ Vote if Aarav's silence spoke louder than words.
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📌 Save this moment — the banyan holds more than just shade.