Crick.
A sound came from behind him.
Avinav heard it clearly.
Forcing himself to move, he tried to turn, but his body felt stuck in place. Heavy. Unresponsive. Slowly, he lifted his head.
Blinking through blurred vision, he tried to focus.
Two figures.
Standing in the darkness.
Who were they?
And why were they here?
His thoughts tangled together.
I was sleeping… right?
Yes. He remembered falling asleep. Deep sleep. So how was he here now? And where even was “here”?
Maybe it’s a dream.
The thought comforted him for a second. He tried to relax, tried to sink back into unconsciousness—
Then he heard it.
A soft sob.
His eyes snapped open wider.
The crying grew clearer.
A child?
No… that didn’t make sense. There were no children in his house.
Cold unease crept through him.
This time, when he tried to turn, his body obeyed.
Slowly.
Stiffly.
And then he saw them properly.
A small boy—maybe six or seven years old—stood trembling in front of an older man. The child’s face was soaked with tears, his tiny hands shaking as he cried toward the figure before him.
The old man stepped closer.
Something gleamed in his hand.
Avinav’s breath caught in his throat.
The man grabbed the child’s hand.
And cut his finger.
The boy screamed.
Avinav felt nausea twist violently inside him.
What am I seeing?
Who are these people?
But the old man didn’t react to the child’s cries.
Instead, he stared at the bleeding finger with disturbing fascination. His eyes looked almost hungry.
Then slowly—
terribly gently—
he brought the child’s bleeding finger to his mouth.
And licked the blood from it.
Avinav felt his stomach turn.
The child kept crying.
Louder.
Sharper.
Until suddenly—
silence.
Everything stopped.
The crying vanished.
The figures disappeared.
The darkness emptied.
Avinav gasped sharply and forced himself awake, trying to feel his own body, trying to convince himself that whatever he had just witnessed—
was only a dream.
~ Astra Vale (বনলতা)
