Few days later,
Zain had that dream again,again and again every night .
The one that always left his chest heavy, his breaths shallow.
He was sinking—deeper and deeper—into a dark, endless sea. The water was cold, merciless, pressing against his skin as shadowed hands reached out from the depths. They coiled around him, dragging him further down into the abyss. This time, though, something changed.
From above, a hand of light stretched toward him—warm, radiant, almost divine. For a moment, hope flickered in his chest. But no matter how hard he tried, his fingers never reached. The shadows tightened, and when he looked down, he saw his own reflection in those dark hands. A mirror of himself, pulling him under.
He gasped awake.
His body was damp with sweat, his heart racing. For a few seconds, the silence of his room felt heavier than the dream itself. He sat up, forcing his breath to steady, then rose to wash and perform his ablution. The calm rhythm of prayer followed, grounding him back to reality. Afterward, he recited softly from the Qur'an, the verses flowing like a fragile shield around his restless mind.
When his eyes drifted toward the calendar on the wall, a small frown formed. Friday. He remembered. Today was the day he was supposed to visit the art gallery.
He closed the book carefully and stood, his steps carrying him to the wardrobe. Pulling the door open, he drew out a neat set of clothes, laying them across the bed. But instead of dressing right away, he moved toward the window. Outside, delicate flakes of snow drifted down from a pale, overcast sky. The city lay hushed beneath the soft blanket of white, the kind of silence only winter could create.
For a while, he just stood there, his palm pressed lightly to the cold glass, watching the flakes fall one by one. A long sigh escaped him. Something about today felt different. Heavy.
By late afternoon, he was ready. The streets were glazed with frost as he made his way across the city, the train ride long but strangely quiet. By the time he reached the gallery, evening had begun to fall, a bluish tint settling into the snowy streets.
But as soon as he stepped inside, unease gripped him.
The art gallery was not what he expected.
No bustling students. No chatter of artists sketching or debating. No clatter of brushes against canvases. Just silence—thick and echoing, as though the building itself was holding its breath. The wide hallways stretched out empty, lit only by soft overhead lamps that flickered slightly against the polished floor. His footsteps rang far too loudly in the stillness.
"Why is it so quiet…?" he thought, his brows knitting.
Then came the sound.
*Ding.*
The elevator doors opened.
An older man stepped out—sharp suit, silver hair, but his movements were restless. He clutched a phone close to his ear, speaking in a hurried, uneasy tone.
"Yes, Writer JJ has arrived… yes… I told you.
Harry up come on.
The words dropped like fragments of a puzzle. Before Zain could make sense of them, the man hung up and strode quickly toward the main exit, disappearing without a second glance.
Zain stood still, expression unreadable, eyes following the man until the silence closed in again.
Another figure soon appeared—a boy, younger, lively, with a strange spark in his gaze. He spotted Zain instantly, his lips curving into a grin.
"You're Zain, right?"
Zain gave a simple nod. "Hmm."
The boy's grin widened. "Great! Come with me. Quickly, handsome!"
Without waiting, he darted toward the elevator, his steps fast and urgent. Zain followed at his own pace, unhurried, his face calm as ever. When the lift stopped on the fourth floor, the boy bolted out like a flash.
"Run!" he called back, half-laughing, half-panicked.
But Zain didn't run. He stepped out slowly, his composure unshaken, eyes taking in the deserted corridor.
The boy halted in front of a room at the far end, his hand twitching nervously toward his right eye, adjusting it in an odd, repetitive gesture. He waved frantically for Zain to hurry.
"Come on! Don't just stand there!"
Zain walked to him in the same steady rhythm, unaffected by the urgency in the boy's voice. As he drew close, the boy exhaled, placing a hand briefly on Zain's shoulder.
"Best of luck," he whispered with a sly smile, his strange eye glinting under the light.
And then, he gestured to the door.
The moment Zain placed his hand on the handle, a new weight pressed over him. Whatever waited on the other side was not just a meeting. It was the beginning of something he could not yet name.
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