C̷H̷A̷P̷T̷E̷R̷ 𝟻̷ : I̷T̷'S̷ R̷E̷A̷L̷ T̷O̷O̷?

SOUL CONNECTION

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.

Just past a small side road—

   A tall wrought-iron gate, its paint chipped, half-hidden behind a curtain of overgrown vines.

Beyond the gate stood a garden.

And in the center of that garden—A crooked willow tree. Bending gently, just like in the sketch.

I stopped.

Frozen.

            |No. No way. That can’t be real. That’s... from the drawing.|

My feet moved before my thoughts could catch up.

I stepped closer.

That was when I saw it.The stone bench.

The one I had drawn. The one I’d never seen in real life.

And sitting right there—calm, quiet, waiting—

Was him.

He didn’t look up.

Almost like... he already knew I would come.

He was there.

Sitting on the stone bench like a forgotten memory—real and unreal all at once.

Same dark clothes.

Same silver eyes.

Same calm, unreadable expression.

         |How is this happening?|

My breath caught in my throat.

I hadn’t even stepped through the gate, but my body felt like it was already inside that garden, already drawn to him.

I slowly pushed the iron gate open. It creaked, soft and tired, as if even it knew it hadn't been touched in years.

Each step toward him made my heartbeat louder.

He just said—  “You came.”

|You came?|

Like this was expected. Like he knew all along.

I stood still, not knowing what to say.

“How...”

My voice cracked. I tried again.

“How do you know this place? How are you even here?”

He finally looked up.

His silver eyes locked onto mine.

No surprise.

No confusion.

Just that quiet, sad knowing.

“Because it’s where you always find me,” he said.

        |Always?|

I stepped closer, not daring to blink.

“I don’t remember ever being here,” I whispered.

He tilted his head, almost softly.

“That’s okay. You will.”

           |What is happening to me?

Why do I feel like I’ve known him forever—when I’ve only just seen him?|

I opened my sketchbook, flipping to the page with the garden.

“I drew this,” I said, holding it up. “But I don’t remember drawing it.”

He nodded once, then reached out—and gently touched the edge of the page with one finger.

“It’s not the first time you’ve drawn it,” he said.

I froze.

“What do you mean?”

His eyes darkened—

not with anger,

but with something heavier. Something I couldn’t name.

  “Your soul remembers what your mind forgets,” he said softly.

    “That’s why it always starts with sketches.”

I froze.

|My soul...? What does he mean by that?|

|What exactly is my mind forgetting?|

   |Who are you to me?|

   |Why do I know your face before I’ve even met you?|

 |And why do you know my name before I’ve spoken it?|

My heartbeat so loud it felt like an answer trying to break through my chest.

But no answers came.

Just more questions.

I wanted to ask them all—every tangled thought, every impossible piece—

I opened my mouth to speak,

to demand answers—

But the words wouldn’t come.

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