✨ **Soul Verse**
Ek paan hote
Ek chakra hote.
Ek shwas hota.
Ek vichar hota.
*(One leaf. One spiral. One breath. One thought.)*
The jungle closed behind him, wrapping itself around Rudra and Meghraj like a living shroud. The sound of twigs snapping underfoot faded into the rich symphony of leaves rustling, the patter of forgotten secrets. Each step they took blended seamlessly with the earthy scent of moss and damp bark. Rudra followed Meghraj in silence, his heart pounding softly, not out of fear, but with anticipation, each footfall lighter than the last.
As the mist thickened around them, the path ahead remained oddly illuminated—like the jungle, with its ancient wisdom, was parting its emerald veil, guiding them forward. The vibrant birdsong that once filled the air faded into an almost sacred silence, transforming the atmosphere into something sacred and reverent.
"Do you feel that?" Rudra finally broke the silence, glancing towards Meghraj, who moved like a Specter—fluid, certain, and unhurried. The horse was a testament to patience, a living embodiment of the forest's quiet strength.
"There's a rhythm to this place," Meghraj seemed to say with a glance over his shoulder, his calm demeanour speaking volumes more than words ever could.
Rudra recalled his grandfather's voice echoing in the depths of his memory, "The jungle doesn't shout. It waits, patiently, for those willing to listen."
After what felt like an eternity, they reached a clearing—circular, enigmatic, and steeped in an eerie silence. Towering trees surrounded the area, their ancient roots curling up from the earth like sleeping serpents, guarding the heart of this untouched world. In the centre lay a flat stone, cracked and weathered by time, stained with something deep and red—a stark contrast against the stone's grey surface.
Rudra stepped closer, feeling an inexplicable pull toward the stone. The air shifted around him—not colder, not warmer—just… more aware, as if the very atmosphere was holding its breath.
Meghraj paused, turning to face him, lowering his majestic head slightly. There was an understanding in that gaze, a bond between them that felt forged by something eternal.
"What is this place?" Rudra whispered, his voice barely above a breath, as if fearing that speaking too loudly might shatter the fragile tranquillity surrounding them.
The horse didn't respond, but the wind—oh, the wind sang around them. A gust swept through the clearing, swirling leaves around as dancers lost in thoughts of old. Creaking branches hovered above—not struggling against time, but resonating with deep-rooted memories.
Rudra felt it in his chest: a pull, a pressure—an unformed question waiting to take shape.
"Will you remember?" the wind seemed to beckon. "Will you choose?"
With a longing heart, he stepped onto the stone.
In an instant, a flash enveloped his senses.
He was transported to a battlefield; chaos swirled around him as a **red thread** of fate seemed to bind his essence. A sword was raised in defiance, the glint of steel striking against the backdrop of a tumultuous sky. Amidst the chaos, a girl stood watching from a distant fort wall—her eyes were like dusk, deep and steady, embodying a flame that dared not flicker in the storm.
"Meera?" he whispered, the name escaping his lips like a haunting melody, filled with a profound sense of longing and unfulfilled promise.
But just as swiftly, the vision vanished, the intensity of the world around him snapping back into focus. Rudra staggered back, the disorientation of the moment crashing into him. Meghraj, sensing his turmoil, steadied him with a gentle nudge.
"What was that?" Rudra asked, feeling a confusion swirl within him, the remnants of the vision still fresh on his mind.
The jungle remained silent, but it didn't need to answer; Rudra already felt the truth resonate within him.
As he looked down, he was startled to see his sketchbook open at his feet. The once-blank pages now bore a vivid sketch—rendered in his own hand, though he had never touched the pencil. There it was: a fort upon a ridge, and a girl with those dusk-dark eyes, framed by the silhouette of a boy on a black horse riding toward her.
Back at the camp, Niya stirred, her instincts suddenly alert. She looked toward the thick darkness of the jungle, a soft frown drawing her brows together.
"He's not here," she said softly, the certainty in her tone surprising even h erself.
Malini, her companion, frowned, sensing a shift. "Who are you talking about?" she asked, confusion knitting her brow.
"Rudra," Niya replied, her voice steady. "Something has changed. I can feel it." She wasn't sure how she knew, but some connection lived between them, leading her to the truth—that the jungle had taken him somewhere far deeper than the physical realm, somewhere memory could unravel and be rediscovered.
Rudra stepped off the stone, the weight of his experience etched onto his skin. Meghraj turned, manoeuvring back into the thicket, and Rudra followed him, but this time, he walked more slowly, his stride altered, transformed by what he had glimpsed.
The trees no longer felt like mere plants; they felt like witnesses to his journey, their trunks bearing the weight of secrets and stories untold. The wind brushed against his cheek, a caress reminiscent of a fading memory. The leaves rustled not with random chance, but with intention, as if the jungle itself were whispering ancient truths.
Fragments of feelings engulfed him—not clear words, nor distinct voices, but sensations that seeped into his very being: a sword raised in silent strength, a vow made under the luminous glow of moonlight, a girl at the fort wall—her eyes steady, yet her heart trembling beneath the weight of fate.
The path took a gentle curve, roots curling and twisting along the earth like script from an unwritten tale. The moss glowed faintly, reminiscent of old embers, as he walked—a rhythmic grace taking hold of his very steps.
"You were brave," the jungle seemed to convey, "You were loyal. You were loved." Each sentiment wrapped around him like a warm embrace, pulling him deeper into the interconnectedness of all things.
Rudra didn't speak; he didn't need to. His heart understood the language of the jungle, the whispers of the past melding with the essence of who he was becoming. He walked like someone rediscovering the art of movement, like someone revisiting a place, a memory that had always existed within him, waiting to be acknowledged.
At the edge of the camp, Meghraj came to a halt. He turned back once more, their eyes meeting in a long pause—an unspoken promise shared between them. Then, with a grace that betrayed his strength, Meghraj vanished into the swirling mist, the jungle welcoming him back with open arms.
Rudra stood there, absorbing the lingering stillness. He listened intently, feeling the jungle—quiet yet buzzing—like a heartbeat that echoed within him, reverberating through time.
Back at the camp, Niya looked up as if drawn by an invisible thread. As Rudra stepped into the clearing, his face was calm, but the light in his eyes shimmered with something new and profound.
"You're different," Niya observed, her voice gentle but filled with a curiosity that urged him to share.
Rudra nodded slowly, a weight lifting from him. "I walked with memory," he confessed, each word revealing the depth of his journey.
She didn't probe further, understanding that certain things are too sacred to question. Instead, she smiled—a warm smile that mirrored the way Meera once did, an unspoken bond formed in quiet understanding.
That night, as stars twinkled above the camp, Rudra took to sketching once more. Not the forts or maps of journeys yet to unfold, but moments that resonated with the truth he had touched.
A sword raised in the stillness of a promise. A flickering flame that danced in the depths of uncertainty. A ridge overlooking the tapestry of fate. A girl, steadfast like the earth itself. A horse, galloping toward destiny.
He paused, ink lingering on the page, uncertainty gnawing at him.
"I remember," he whispered, his voice barely rising above the rustling of the night. "Even if I don't."
The jungle rustled in agreement, the stars blinked knowingly, and somewhere—across the fabric of time—a vow stirred, waiting for its moment to bloom. A girl watching from a fort wall—eyes like dusk, steady as flame.
"Meera?" he whispered.
The name tasted like longing.
The vision vanished.
The jungle rustled. The stars blinked. And somewhere, across time, a vow stirred.