The dense jungle around Aryan stretched far and wide, a little eerie. The tall trees stood like pillars from old times, and their branches were so thick that sunlight could barely reach the ground. Because of this, even morning felt like evening.
He had been walking for many hours, but hadn't seen a single human or creature. Still, he felt that something wasn't right. It was as if someone or something was watching from shadows, as if many wild creature were moving just beyond his vision.
But the strangest part was that nothing came near him. It felt as though all those creatures in this place were deliberately avoiding him. Why?
He had no idea.
Then again, what could one expect from a place where, immediately upon arriving, he had experienced unbearable pain, terrifying visions, and heard a voice telling him to kill to survive?
What were those voices?
He had no answer.
The more Aryan thought about it, the more his head began to ache. Those voices hadn't returned since the first time. Maybe it was just a one-time thing.
Or maybe not.
Maybe they were simply waiting—waiting for him to lower his guard so they could plunge him back into pain and despair.
Aryan's fist tightened around the sword. He didn't know what was happening here, but he knew one thing for certain.
Wherever he was, however he had come here, and whatever was going on— he had to find a way out. He had to go back.
Back to his family.
Aryan was only sixteen when his father died in a factory accident. He still remembered that terrible phone call… the way his mother's knees gave out… the innocent voice of his six-year-old sister.
The weight of being the head of the family had settled on his shoulders like a heavy coat he couldn't take off. His mother had always been their pillar, but when she thought no one was watching, her hands would stiffen, and her composure would begin to crack.
His younger sister, bright-eyed and innocent, never fully understood why their world had changed so suddenly—why her brother now carried a burden far heavier than his age.
The guilt was a constant ache inside him. Had he done enough? Could he have worked more hours, found better jobs, somehow filled the impossible void their father had left?
He could still picture them at the breakfast table—his mother serving hot parathas with a worried crease on her forehead. she hunched over her books, mumbling about her exams. Such simple moments… so precious in their normalcy.
The realization hit him like a cold blow to the chest, stopping him in his tracks.
His family. They were waiting.
His mother would be pacing near the window, the tea in her hands growing cold. His sister would be looking at the door, waiting—every second, every minute.
"I have to go back," he whispered to the tall trees. "They need me. They have no one else."
After a while, Aryan slid the sword across his back, securing it with his belt. He didn't have the strength to hold the heavy weapon for hours. His arm was starting to ache. It was better to hang it somewhere within reach.
He didn't even know how to use it. It was just there for safety.
One thing he had in abundance now was time.
Even after hours of walking, the sunlight filtering through the trees hadn't changed. It remained the same. He didn't even have a watch to know the real time.
And he hadn't realized the most basic need of any human being—
Hunger and thirst.
'I'm not dreaming, am I?'
It really felt like a dream. A dream where he was alone, and yet never hungry or thirsty. Even after walking for hours, he felt only a little tired. And when he stopped to rest, the exhaustion vanished almost instantly. It was as if he had never been tired at all.
"Ouch."
Aryan pinched himself. But he felt nothing—nothing except sharp, real pain.
This was no dream. The pain was too real and sharp. His mind was full of confusion it was hard to make sense of anything.
Whatever this place was, it didn't follow any of the rules he knew.
He started walking through the Jungle again. The path—if it could even be called that—wound endlessly through tall, towering trees. Sometimes the land rose into gentle hills, other times it dipped into shadowy valleys where the air felt heavier, more oppressive.
A few more hours may have passed or maybe not. Time seemed to lost its meaning in this strange place. The light shifted slightly, but never enough to mark any real passage.
But slowly, Aryan began to notice something different. The trees were changing.
Where before they had been uniform giants with thick, twisted trunks, now they began to vary. Some were thin, with yellow bark that seemed to glow faintly in the dim light.
Others had leaves that rustled without any wind. And strangest of all, some trees bore fruits that impossible to exists.
He wasn't hungry, but to make himself feel alive, he ate one of the strange, out-of-season fruit—fruit that turned out to be more delicious than anything he had ever tasted before.
The ground beneath his feet was changing too. What had once been hard soil was now soft, almost spongy. Moss had crept over everything, forming a thick, emerald carpet that completely muffled his footsteps. The silence that had surrounded him since he arrived was slowly turning into something else.
At first, he thought he was imagining it. But the further he walked, the harder it became to ignore.
A slow and soft murmur. Distant but persistent. Like voices whispering secrets just beyond comprehension. But unlike the terrifying voice he had heard before, this sound felt different.
Natural. Peaceful. Unified.
Aryan stopped walking and tilted his head, trying to pinpoint the source. It seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once, echoing through the jungle in a way that made his heart beat faster—not from fear, but from something else.
Hope, perhaps.
As he moved forward, the sound became clearer, more focused, as though it were guiding him. He realized then that it wasn't voices.
It was something far more basic, far more importan. Water.
The sound of flowing water.
His throat, which hadn't felt dry until that moment, suddenly ached with thirst. Maybe it was just his imagination. But who cares? its water.
His body, which had seemed disconnected from human needs in this strange place, suddenly remembered what it was like to want something as simple as a drink of cool, clean water.
Following the sound, Aryan pushed aside a cluster of low-hanging branches that seemed to part willingly for him. The moss-covered ground sloped gently downward, and the sound of water grew louder, more distinct.
Then he saw it.
Through the trees ahead, a flash of silver caught his eye—running water, reflecting the strange, unchanging light of the jungle. The sound was unmistakable now—not just flowing water, but the soft murmur and gurgle of a stream winding over rocks and fallen logs.
Aryan quickened his pace, his heart thudding for the first time since arriving in this awe-striking place. Water meant life. Water meant survival. Water meant hope—maybe even a way back to his family.
As he drew closer, the sound filled his ears, washing away the heavy silence that had followed him for so long. For the first time since his arrival, Aryan allowed himself a small smile.
He had found something real.
Something that whispered of hope in this unknown world.