Devendra walked home slowly, each step heavy, as if the pavement itself was holding him down. The sky above was painted in muted oranges and purples, the evening settling in, but he barely noticed. The chatter of children playing, the distant horns, even the scent of food from nearby homes—it all felt muffled, distant, unreal. His mind replayed the last few hours over and over: the empty classroom, the laughter outside that seemed to echo in a hollow way, and the whisper of her voice crawling into his thoughts again.
Why am I still thinking of her? he wondered. Why can't I stop hearing her?
Every step he took reminded him of the countless nights spent in the endless dream world. The endless deaths. The cruel laughter. The red moon. The village that never existed, yet had etched itself into his mind so deeply that waking life felt secondary, almost fragile.
When he reached home, the door creaked as he stepped in. The house was quiet; the faint smell of cooked rice and curry lingered. His mom was at the kitchen counter, chopping vegetables, humming softly—a sound so ordinary, yet it pierced through the haze of fear and memories like sunlight through clouds.
"Devendra… you're home early," she said, glancing at him. Her eyes softened with concern, but he could feel the subtle tension, the worry for what she couldn't see fully—what she could only sense.
"I… yeah," he muttered, his voice low. He left his bag by the door and moved toward the table.
Sitting down, he picked up his spoon, but his hands shook slightly. He stared at the food without really tasting it, feeling the weight of everything pressing against his chest. His mom watched quietly, unsure whether to speak or give him space.
Then, in the corner of his vision, it flickered—white hair, pale fingers, just for a second. His heart spiked, and he nearly dropped the spoon. The whisper came too, soft but deliberate, curling around his thoughts: You cannot escape me.
Devendra's breathing quickened. He looked up sharply, but the room was empty. Just his mom, chopping quietly. He clenched his teeth, trying to ground himself. It's just my mind. It's just a memory. I am here. I am real. I am alive.
But even as he repeated it, he knew it wasn't enough.
After dinner, he went to his room and sat by the window, staring at the fading light outside. Slowly, painfully, he began to recall fragments of the dream world—not the cruel acts, not the terror—but fleeting images of himself standing, surviving, even if just barely. And in those fragments, he felt something unfamiliar: resilience.
Maybe… maybe I am stronger than I thought, he whispered, almost to himself. But then the memory of her laughter returned, echoing in his mind, and his chest tightened again.
He buried his face in his hands, trying to hold back the rising panic. Slowly, he realized that even though the terror would never fully leave him, there was a space—a tiny, fragile space—where he could remember being safe, being cared for, being a child again.
And in that small space, he clung.