Ashes of the Old Home
The house was quiet. Too quiet.
Not the kind of silence that soothes—but the kind that hums with absence, echoing every small sound like it's begging to be filled. Zayaan stepped inside with his single suitcase and the weight of everything he'd lost. His mother's brother had taken him in, and so had his aunt, but the warmth of their walls couldn't unburn the ruins inside his heart.
This wasn't home. Home had been where her laughter once lived, where her scent lingered in the cushions, and where even the arguments meant presence—connection. This place? This place was survival. Not living.
Zayaan barely spoke those first weeks. Not because he had nothing to say, but because every word felt like a betrayal to a past that still clung to him like dust on an old coat. He wasn't angry. He wasn't expressive. He simply—drifted.
Kian joined him at the new school, but even their friendship felt different. As if they both had become ghosts of their former selves, wearing old skins that didn't quite fit anymore. Their laughter was shorter, their energy dimmer. Zayaan wasn't the boy he used to be—and he didn't pretend to be.
The boy who once stood out in classrooms—full of wit, passion, and ideas—was now the boy who stared blankly at blackboards. Equations once felt like poetry. Literature once cracked his imagination wide open. Now, everything looked the same. Blank. Empty. Meaningless.
For the first time in his life, he questioned what he was studying. Not out of curiosity—but out of exhaustion. "Why am I doing this?" became a daily, silent whisper. He felt himself slipping—not failing, not falling—but slowly erasing.
Something in him had shut off. A kind of spiritual fever. Not loud, but corrosive. The grief hadn't just made him sad—it had made him numb. It wasn't just the death of a person—it was the quiet, cruel fading of purpose.
People around him saw the change. Teachers asked. Neighbors gossiped. His uncle offered advice. Kian watched closely. But Zayaan had already gone somewhere deeper—a space between remembering and forgetting. Between who he was, and who he might become.
Because even though he'd escaped the old house, its ashes still clung to him.
And no one—not even he—knew if he'd ever shake them off
Chapter Two: Ashes of the Old Home
(continued)
There were mornings Zayaan would wake up and forget where he was.
The walls were different. The window faced east instead of west. The bed was too firm. The voices outside belonged to strangers. For a few seconds, he'd believe he was still in his old room—before the loss, before the fight, before Elena. Before everything collapsed.
But then the truth would settle like dust on sunlight. Cold and heavy.
The mirror in his new room held a version of him he didn't recognize. His eyes had grown quieter. His shoulders carried the kind of weight that didn't come from bags or books, but from things unspoken. Loss. Confusion. Longing. Shame.
"What am I doing here?"
"Why did everything go wrong?"
"Why did she leave?"
"Why did he throw me away?"
"Why do I still care?"
These weren't questions Zayaan asked out loud. He wouldn't have known how to, even if someone begged him to. They lived inside him, echoing louder than any lecture in class. The teachers' words began to blur. The notebooks filled themselves in robotic scrawls. Time became water—flowing over him without soaking in.
He didn't cry. Not anymore. Crying needed a certain kind of fire inside, and Zayaan only felt cold now.
But somewhere in that cold, something strange began to call him.
It began with dreams. Small, flickering visions. Trees. Branches. A fog-soaked trail. He would wake up breathless, as if he had been walking somewhere deep in his sleep. Somewhere old. Somewhere waiting.
The woods.
They were just a few kilometers away, behind the fields that bordered the village road. Wild and tangled. The kind of place mothers warned children to stay away from after dark. But to Zayaan, they weren't threatening. They were familiar. They whispered. They remembered.
Sometimes, after school, he would walk toward the edge of the woods. He wouldn't enter—not yet. He'd stand near the first line of trees, just staring. Feeling. As if the woods held an answer to a question he hadn't formed yet.
Kian noticed, once. "You okay?" he asked, following Zayaan's gaze into the treeline.
Zayaan didn't reply. Not fully. Just offered a quiet:
"It's strange. They don't scare me."
He didn't say what he really felt.
That the woods called to a memory buried so deep he couldn't name it.
That every branch seemed to be shaped like a hand reaching out.
That something inside them felt… unfinished.
Because sometimes, when everything else goes silent—the past begins to speak.
Chapter Two: Ashes of the Old Home (continued)
That night, the woods followed Zayaan home.
Sleep didn't come easily anymore. Most nights he tossed, turned, stared at the shadows cast by the curtain folds. But that night, sleep fell on him like a weight. Heavy. Sudden. Unstoppable.
And then it began.
He was walking.
Not in his new home. Not in the city. Not in the school.
But through a field. A familiar one. Dry grass brushed against his shins. The light in the sky was wrong—not quite day, not quite night. The horizon glowed orange, as if lit by an unseen fire far, far away. His feet moved without command, dragging him forward through the tall reeds and past the old broken fence. He didn't remember walking it—but every stone and slope of land felt known.
Then he heard it.
A whisper.
"Come here."
He stopped. The voice wasn't loud. It wasn't threatening. But it slipped into his spine like ice.
"Zayaan."
That name. Spoken low and gentle. A woman's voice. Familiar, but fogged—like a forgotten lullaby. His heart began to race, but not from fear. From knowing.
He turned.
There, across the field, was the forest. The same one near his new home. But something was different. The trees were taller than they should've been—more ancient, more alive. And from within their shadowed trunks, something shimmered. Light, maybe. Or memory.
He stepped forward.
The ground beneath him was soft, like the earth had just been rained on. His small hands—childlike now—brushed against the edge of his sweater. He was six again. No doubt about it. The world felt larger, heavier, full of soundless pressure.
He kept walking.
Past the old neem tree. Past the backyard of a house he hadn't seen in years.
Nani's house.
Suddenly, it stood before him. Quiet. Empty. Cracked tiles. Faded green windows. A soft wind blew through the hanging sheets on the clothesline, but they didn't flap—they watched.
He walked to the back door. It was open.
The voice returned.
"Zayaan, come."
He stepped inside.
Everything was darker now. The colors muted, like old photographs. The kitchen table was still set—three plates. A broken teacup. He could smell cardamom and smoke.
The hallway stretched too long. At the end of it: the backdoor leading to the woods. Slightly ajar.
He remembered now.
That day. The way the wind howled. The way the grown-ups whispered. How he had wandered out, following something he couldn't explain. A humming. A light.
The trees had welcomed him that day.
And now, in the dream, they were doing it again.
But just as he reached the threshold—just as the first leaf of the forest brushed against his skin—
A sharp ringing split the air.
He woke up.
Breathless. Soaked in sweat.
His hands trembled as he sat up in the bed. Outside, the sky was still dark. But the air around him felt changed. Like he had crossed a line.
He placed a hand over his chest. His heart thudded against it.
For the first time in years, Zayaan remembered the feeling of being called. Not by a person.
By a place.
By the woods.
And whatever was waiting inside them.
---
Chapter Two: Ashes of the Old Home (continued)
That night, Zayaan slipped into a sleep that didn't feel like rest.
It was too quiet.
The kind of quiet that presses on your chest.
In the dream, he was six again.
He could feel it—not just the weight of his small frame, but the way his heart used to beat when everything felt bigger, louder, unknown. He was standing in the backyard of Nani's old house. The scent of wet mud. The distant creak of a rusty swing. The light—faint, orange, slipping behind the hills.
He looked around. He could see the old well, the half-broken fence, the bicycle with its twisted wheel. Everything was just like it had been.
And then he heard it.
"Come here…"
A whisper.
But not from a person.
It moved with the breeze, curling around his ears, tugging at him softly.
He turned toward the far edge of the land—where the grass grew wilder, where the trees began.
The woods.
He remembered this.
He remembered standing at that very edge, even back then, the day that changed everything.
Now, in the dream, he saw himself taking that first step forward—like he always had.
The wind stirred again. Stronger.
"Come here…"
The air spoke. Not in words, but in weight. The gust wrapped around him, like a hand pulling gently on his shirt. The closer he came to the trees, the colder the wind grew. It whispered against his skin, brushed through his hair, hummed into his bones.
He stepped past the last patch of sunlight.
Into the mouth of the woods.
And that's when the world changed.
The trees—huge, ancient—stood like silent giants, their trunks wide enough to swallow him whole. Their leaves barely moved, but the wind inside the forest didn't stop. It circled him. Pulled at him. Touched the back of his neck like breath.
And the whispers came again—this time, from inside the trees.
"Something bad is going to happen…"
Zayaan froze.
It wasn't a threat.
It wasn't a warning.
It was a memory.
He didn't know how, but he knew: these trees had seen what happened. They had held it in their silence for ten long years. And now they were giving it back.
"Something bad… is going to happen…"
The words bounced through his skull like an echo in a cave.
Over and over.
His feet wouldn't move.
He couldn't run.
He couldn't scream.
Then—
A sudden crack. A breath. A shadow.
Something moved in the corner of his vision, fast—behind the tree. He turned.
Darkness swallowed the path.
And he woke.
Cold sweat. Sheets tangled around his legs. The ceiling above him, strange and unfamiliar. His breath hitched like he'd been running.
But the whisper still pulsed in his chest.
Something bad is going to happen.
Not had happened.
Is going to happen
The city had changed, but Chenar remained untouched—like a secret piece of time they'd buried and could still return to.
It wasn't much. Just an old park, quiet most days, with three towering chenar trees rooted near the edge of a dry canal. Beneath them, nestled like an old memory, was a flat, grey rock—big enough for two, weathered by years, warm in the sun, cold in the morning.
It had always been their spot.
Zayaan and Kian sat there again, like they had so many times before. No rush. Just wind. The kind of place where words didn't have to come fast, and time moved slower.
Rian looked at the sky through the leaves. He hadn't said anything yet. The dream still clawed at his ribs. The forest. The air. That voice. That sentence.
"I saw it again," he said eventually.
Kian didn't ask what.
He waited.
Zayaan swallowed. "Last night. The woods. I was six again. I saw Nani's house. The trees… they whispered something."
Kian didn't speak for a moment. Then he turned to look at him, his voice calm, the way only Kian's could be.
> "You've been carrying something heavy, Zayaan. Maybe too heavy for too long. But it's not just a dream. It's a part of you that never got to speak."
Zayaan looked at him.
Kian continued, softly.
> "And maybe… now it's trying to speak."
He didn't offer false comfort. He didn't dismiss it as imagination. He just sat there, under the chenar trees, holding space for his friend, like he always had.
Zayaan didn't realize until then how much he'd needed someone to believe him—without asking him to explain.
Chapter 2 (Excerpt): The Call to Rise
The sun was barely up when Zayaan trudged through the school gates. His bag slumped on one shoulder, shoelaces loosely tied, and eyes distant. The usual murmur of students passed around him like waves around a rock—he heard everything and nothing at once.
Inside the classroom, the air was cold. Not because of the temperature, but because of the eyes. Cold stares from teachers, murmurs from classmates, pity from some, judgment from others. A few months ago, Zayaan was admired—known for his sharp mind and composed presence. Now, he was on the edge of academic failure. Homework undone, marks slipping, attention lost.
During the attendance period, the class teacher called him aside.
"Zayaan… what's happening to you?" she asked, her voice firm but not cruel. "You used to be at the top. And now… you barely pass your tests. You don't speak. You don't raise your hand anymore. Are you even trying?"
He didn't answer. He couldn't. He looked at her like he was underwater, and her words were just ripples. She dismissed him with a sigh, her disappointment trailing after her like smoke.
Kian noticed the conversation but said nothing. They'd had this talk before. They both knew Zayaan was slipping, and no one—no advice, no motivation—could hold him.
That night, Zayaan didn't eat dinner. He sat in the corner room of the new house—once his mother's brother's study. The walls were filled with dusty books and the windows cracked just enough to let in the cold. He lay down on the floor mattress without changing his clothes.
And then, it came again.
The dream.
He was six years old again, in the memory of his nani's village. The laughter of cousins filled the afternoon. The wide field behind the house rolled into the beginning of the forest—tall, looming trees that seemed to watch them silently. The others played, chased each other, but Zayaan found himself drawn to the trees.
Again, like before, the woods called to him. There was no voice. Just… a presence. The way the wind curved around his ear. The way the light blinked between the branches. Come here. Again, he walked.
But this time, it was different.
The air was not warning him. It was not cold and ominous. It was urgent. Fierce. It felt like the woods weren't pulling him into fear—they were pushing him into something he had forgotten.
A voice—deep, like wind through stone—echoed through the trees.
> "You know who you are. Show them."
Zayaan looked up. The trees were towering, ancient. Their bark cracked like faces of sleeping giants.
> "Don't cut our nose. Don't let your head fall."
He turned in the dream, and a rush of wind spun leaves around him like a dance. The forest trembled—not with terror, but with power.
> "You were born with the flame. Show them who you are. Screw them. Make your comeback."
Zayaan's six-year-old self stood, frozen, wide-eyed—but then the dream shifted. He was older again, himself now. Standing in the woods, alone. The trees now glowed faintly, silver veins in their bark. The air moved through his skin like breath.
He opened his mouth, but no words came. Instead, he felt something rising in his chest. A heat. Not anger. Not sadness. Something like… purpose. Something like remembrance.
And then, he woke up.
The early morning light was spilling in through the cracked window. His breath was heavy. He looked around the room—still, quiet, real. But the dream clung to his mind like mist.
He didn't move for a while. Just sat up slowly, the words echoing in his skull:
> "You know your potential. Show them who you are."
He got up, walked to the desk, pulled out a sheet of paper. And he began writing. Scribbling, almost, with force—lines of memory, lines of feeling. Things he had buried. Things he never said. Every word was like an exhale. Like something escaping.
Kian entered the room sometime later, surprised to see him writing. Zayaan didn't speak. He didn't need to.
Kian looked at the page. "You saw something again… didn't you?"
Zayaan nodded. Then looked out the window, toward the distant line of trees on the horizon.
> "This time," he said softly, "they didn't warn me. They told me to fight."
.
The dream stayed with Zayaan—not like a memory, but like a seed planted deep inside him. The trees, the voice, the words — "Don't let your head fall. Show them who you are." Something in him had been stirred, something ancient and raw.
And so, quietly, he began to change.
The next morning at school, his teachers still held the same doubt in their eyes, but something was different in Zayaan's posture. He sat upright. He took out his books. When a question was asked in class, his hand trembled before it rose—but it rose. The answer wasn't perfect, but it was there.
Kian noticed it. He didn't say anything, not at first. But as they sat together during the lunch break, beneath the old chenar trees behind the school library, Kian just smiled and said, "You're coming back."
Zayaan didn't respond. He looked up at the sky through the leaves and whispered, "I'm trying."
---
At home, the change wasn't so easy.
His uncle, Imran—his late mother's younger brother—was watching carefully. He saw the pages being filled again on Zayaan's desk, the way his nephew sat long at night writing equations, reading, staring at the woods through the window. He remembered his sister, Aamira, and how her eyes would light up when she spoke about her son's sharp mind. For Imran, Zayaan wasn't just a boy—he was a living fragment of the sister he had lost. And so he stood by him.
"You're in pain," Imran told him one night, sitting beside him after dinner. "But you were born to carry fire, Zayaan. Some people break under pain. Others burn brighter. You decide what kind you are."
Zayaan nodded slowly. "Sometimes I feel like she's still here. Not in this house… but in me."
Imran placed a hand on his shoulder, gently. "Then listen to her."
But not everyone in the house shared that warmth.
Aaliya, Imran's wife, had never liked the presence of another energy under her roof. She had always envied Aamira's grace and intelligence, and she had seen that same spark in Zayaan. Now, watching him stumble and fall into the shadows, she felt something bitterly close to satisfaction.
In hushed whispers to the neighbors, she spoke about him with a crooked smile. "He used to be brilliant… now look. Even his own father abandoned him. Poor child—no direction. He'll never make it."
At home, she didn't hide her disdain.
"What's the use of filling up notebooks if he's failing all his subjects?" she said one evening as Imran came back from work. "We can't keep feeding dreams that are already dead."
Imran clenched his jaw but didn't reply.
Zayaan overheard it all. Every word. Every poisoned glance. But this time, he didn't let it crush him. If anything, it added fuel to something quietly building within.
---
Then came the second dream.
This time, he was alone again in the fields behind his nani's house. The air was colder, and the light more faded. The woods rose up like giants in a mist. But he wasn't a child now. He was who he was now—older, broken, healing.
Again, the wind whispered: "Come here."
But this time, he didn't walk like a lost child. He ran.
He ran through the grass, into the opening of the forest. The trees swayed and murmured his name. And then he heard the voice—not warning him this time, not pulling him back.
> "You know your strength. You were born to climb the shadows. Don't give it to them. Don't give it to doubt. Don't give it to failure. Show them who you are."
Zayaan shouted into the trees: "I will!"
And he woke up.
---
That morning, he went to school with iron in his
spine.
When the math teacher posed a question, he not only raised his hand, he walked to the board. The answer was perfect.Sharp. Clean. The class fell silent.
The teacher blinked. "Zayaan?"
He nodded. "I'd like to solve the rest of the paper, if that's alright."
From that day, the tide began to shift.
His performance improved. His teachers noticed. Classmates whispered. His aunt still spat small comments at dinner, but now Imran only smiled gently and said, "The storm's turning."
Kian knew it too. One afternoon beneath the chenar trees, Kian turned to him and said:
"Whatever you saw in that dream… keep going there."
And Zayaan, looking at the sky again, simply said:
"I think it's not a place I go to anymore. I think it's waking up inside me."
"Ashes of the Old Home"]
Twisted ending
That night, Zayaan found himself in the attic of his new home. Dust floated in the air like time itself had stopped breathing here. He had been looking for his old sketchbook, but instead, he stumbled upon a cardboard box with his name scribbled on it in fading ink.
He opened it.
Inside were a few of his childhood things—an old woolen cap, some dried flowers, and a photo album. As he turned the pages, his eyes stopped on one photo.
It was her.
His mother, Aamira.
She was standing beneath the large Chinar tree at Nani's house. She looked tired, her smile heavy with the weight of unspoken pain. The woods could be seen in the background—those same woods from his dreams. It wasn't the photo that scared him. It was the fact that he had never seen it before.
He flipped the photo.
On the back, in his mother's delicate handwriting:
"Never go too deep into what doesn't call you by name."
His breath caught in his chest.
The woods had been calling him. In dreams. In feelings. In that strange humming he sometimes thought he imagined when no one else was around.
And then, something else caught his eye—an envelope taped beneath the box lid. His hands trembled as he pulled it off.
It was a letter.
But not for him.
It was addressed to "Mustafa."
His father.
He hesitated, then opened it.
> "Mustafa, if you're reading this, it means I couldn't hold on any longer. Take care of Zayaan. Never let him go near those woods. He is not like other children. Something follows him. Something I once saw and never dared to name. Please, protect him from himself."
Zayaan froze.
The words carved into his heart like glass through soft skin.
"Something follows him…"
The wind outside howled like a warning, brushing past the cracks in the windowpane. For a moment, he thought he heard it whisper his name.
He closed the letter slowly.
That night, he couldn't sleep.
He sat by the window and stared into the darkness. Somewhere out there, past the forgotten paths and broken fences, were the woods.
Calling.
Whispering.
Remembering.
And for the first time, Zayaan didn't feel afraid. He felt watched.
He asked himself a question, not out loud, but somewhere inside where his voice barely echoed:
"What did she see?"
And deeper still, a question he was almost too scared to ask:
"What if it's not the woods calling me... but what lives inside them?"