"Hello... hello... hello."
It all started with that dream—a dream that changed my entire life.
In the dream, there was a temple. And a doll.
Not just any doll, but one that could speak. One that loved. Every night, it would whisper a different story to me—some haunting, some tender. Day after day, the stories became more vivid. Until one day, curiosity got the best of me. I decided to find out what lay at the end of those tales.
Ever since I was a child, I've struggled to focus. My mind would often drift, especially during moments that demanded clarity. That day was no different. On the way to the temple, I was riding my scooter alone when I suddenly zoned out. Dangerous, I know. But in that brief moment, I envisioned another doll—older, stranger, surrounded by people spinning in a great wheel of memory and time.
Then, something—or someone—appeared in front of me. I jerked my head back to reality, nearly losing my balance. Somehow, I made it to the temple. But once I was there, I hesitated. What could I offer? The place was busy—people prayed to a goddess for a bountiful harvest, offerings in hand. I reached into my wallet and pulled out a ten-rupee note.
Just as I extended my hand, someone grabbed me from behind—firm, urgent—and dragged me outside.
"What are you doing on this damned bridge? You could fall!"
That was when I realized something was wrong. None of it felt real. I looked down and saw the bridge beneath me—old, broken, out of service for at least ten years. Below, a river murmured through the dark, and I must have been following a ritual… maybe dropping coins in as an offering. I pulled myself together, looking around for my scooter.
I searched for what felt like hours. By the time I found it, night had fallen. A cold winter silence crept into the air. Desperate for shelter, I stumbled across a worn-out mansion still operating at that late hour. A sign outside offered free services for travelers in need.
Inside, it was surprisingly warm. The people treated me kindly, gave me food, a place to rest. But something about the place—it was too still, too quiet.
The next morning, I got ready to leave, only to realize—I'd forgotten where I was going.
The temple, the doll, the ten-rupee note… they felt like fragments of something I couldn't grasp. I questioned whether the temple had ever really existed. The image of it was already beginning to blur.
More disoriented than ever, I dug around for information and discovered I was in a village far from home. Eventually, I made my way back. By the time I reached, the day had slipped away. I collapsed onto my bed, exhausted, haunted by the strange events.
That night, the dream returned.
Same temple. Same doll. Same whisper.
It was happening so often now that I sought help from a counselor. He asked if I'd experienced trauma—maybe an accident that had broken something deep inside me. He explained that recurring dreams like mine could stem from unresolved trauma.
After several sessions, I left the clinic feeling a little lighter. I decided to grab a snack, maybe sleep it off.
But that night… the dream shifted.
The doll sat quietly, its glassy eyes watching me. Then, with that same eerie calm, it began a new story.
A story about a child.
A boy who broke his sister—not physically, but in ways that left scars far deeper. He blamed her for killing his favorite pet. Whether it was an accident or something darker, no one really knew. But the boy's rage consumed him. What followed was silence, then chaos, and eventually... a shattering no one could undo.
As the doll's voice trailed off, something inside me twisted.
This wasn't my story.
This was theirs.
My son. My daughter.
That was the truth. The story was about them.
Why had I forgotten? Why had this part of my life—so immense, so defining—vanished from my memory?
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I tried to recall, but it was like reaching into thick fog. The memories were there, but sealed away—like a locked door I was never meant to open. And yet, the dreams had opened it. Piece by piece.
I remembered the aftermath. My daughter, unresponsive and broken, had been taken away—admitted to a mental hospital when no one knew what else to do. My son was sent somewhere far. I never asked where. Maybe I didn't want to know.
For years, I lived with that hollow absence, pretending the hole in my life wasn't there.
Now it was all rushing back.
The temple. The doll. The dreams. They weren't guiding me to some mystical revelation—they were forcing me to remember. Forcing me to face what I buried long ago.
I lay in bed, unable to move, my body heavy with truth.