I was standing barefoot in a courtyard. The stone felt cool beneath me, and the air was heavy with Jasmine scent. The flowers clung to my hair, to the night itself, as if they knew me better than I knew myself.
Somewhere, a temple bell rang once, then faded, leaving the silence deeper than before.
I was not alone.
On the steps, half-hidden in the glow of moonlight, stood a man. His face was blurred, shifting like a reflection in water. But the pull in my chest was sharp and undeniable. Him… I know him. He is mine.
My throat ached to call his name, but no sound left me. I could only watch as Jasmine petals slipped through the air, falling between us like slow rain. Just when he turned — as if about to step closer, about to speak — the dream began to dissolve, the courtyard breaking apart into light.
I woke with my heart racing, the ceiling fan spinning lazily above me. No Jasmine… no moonlight.
Only my bedsheet clutched tight in my fist, as though I'd been holding onto someone's hand and lost it. Still, the warmth lingered, as if I had truly touched him, as if I had already lived this moment once before.
This is the one.