C̷H̷A̷P̷T̷E̷R̷ 𝟺̷ : T̷H̷E̷ A̷N̷O̷T̷H̷E̷R̷ S̷K̷E̷T̷C̷H̷?

                SOUL CONNECTION

Every time I blinked, I saw those silver eyes.

That face.

That calm, expressionless voice that still echoed in my brain.

|"Because I’ve lost you before…"

     What did he mean? In every world? And why does it feel like I’ve known him my whole life—yet can’t remember a single thing?|

I sighed and told myself it was just stress.

New city. New college. New everything.

But deep inside, I knew —

                    |It wasn’t stress. It was him.|

Evening fell while my thoughts looped endlessly, and just like that, my first day of college passed in a blur. I returned home, didn’t say much to Mom, and quietly slipped into my room.

Only then did I really see it.

In the morning rush, in all the exhaustion, I hadn’t noticed the details. But now, under the soft glow of the night lamp, I looked around and took it in —new walls, unfamiliar furniture, a strange quietness that didn’t belong to me yet.

I dropped onto my bed, still fully dressed.

Sleep wouldn’t come.

         |How could I sleep when my whole day felt like a dream I couldn’t wake from?|

So, I reached for the one thing that always grounded me —

my sketchbook.

I opened it slowly.

But instead of the page with the silver-eyed boy, it flipped open to something else.

A different drawing.

One I didn’t remember making.

It was a place.

Not a face. Not a figure. Just a quiet, wild garden.

Flowers in full bloom. Ivy-covered walls.

A crooked willow tree leaning over a stone bench.

My heart skipped.

    " I didn’t draw this… did I?" I wishpered.

But the lines were mine.

The shading. The pencil pressure. The tiny moon-shaped charm hanging from the tree’s branch.

It looked like my work.

But it didn’t feel like my memory

I ran my fingers slowly over the sketch.

The paper felt normal—but something about the image didn’t.

Something about it made my chest tighten.

Not in fear.

In recognition.

          |I’ve never seen this place before... or had I?|

The garden felt familiar in a strange, impossible way.

I stared at the tiny bench, the hanging charm, the curve of the willow’s shadow.

                     |Why does it feel like I’ve been there?|

The lines blurred a little as my eyes grew heavy.

Still holding the sketchbook, I drifted off to sleep—the picture of that garden sinking quietly into my dreams.

The next morning, I left the house earlier than usual, hoping the cold air might quiet the thoughts that wouldn’t stop circling my mind.

The city was just waking up.

Birds called from power lines, auto rickshaws rumbled downside roads, and the sky was still a little pale—like it hadn’t decided what kind of day it wanted to be.

I walked with my headphones in but no music playing. Just needing to move.

To breathe.

And then I saw it.

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