Whispers from the Past

Two days had passed since the night Dylan saw Aiden—and Alexander. But the memory hadn’t faded. If anything, it had grown heavier, etched deeper into his thoughts like a song stuck on repeat.

Dylan sat in the college canteen, a paper plate of samosas cooling in front of him. The space buzzed with chatter—students rushing to finish assignments, teasing over chai, and debates about upcoming exams—but it all felt distant.

Jay leaned over the table, munching loudly. “Earth to Dylan,” he said, snapping his fingers in front of Dylan’s face.

Dylan blinked. “Huh?”

Jay smirked. “You’ve been zoned out since you sat down. Don’t tell me you’re still thinking about that rich guy’s kid.”

“I am,” Dylan said, unashamed. “He said something weird that night. Called me a friend. Said we used to play together.”

Rohan raised a brow. “Wait, how old is this kid again?”

“Three. Maybe four.”

Jay laughed. “Bro, he probably just thought you looked like someone else.”

Dylan shook his head slowly. “It didn’t feel like that. It felt… intentional.”

“You don’t actually believe in that reincarnation stuff, do you?” Imran chimed in, slurping his chai with a grin. “Past lives and all that? Sounds like one of my mom’s soap operas.”

“I don’t know what I believe,” Dylan admitted. “But ever since I saw him, I’ve been remembering things that don’t make sense. Feelings. Sounds. Like pieces of a story I’ve never read.”

There was silence for a beat.

Then Jay said, more gently, “Look, you probably just got shaken up. The kid nearly got hit by a car. Adrenaline messes with memory.”

“Maybe,” Dylan said.

But his voice lacked conviction.

---

That evening, Dylan sat cross-legged on the living room floor, sorting through a dusty old photo album. His mother was folding laundry nearby while Lily sprawled across the carpet with markers and a half-finished drawing of a treehouse.

“Ma,” Dylan said suddenly, “Do we know anyone named Carter? Or used to?”

His mother paused mid-fold. “Carter? Hmm... that sounds familiar. Why?”

“Just heard the name somewhere,” Dylan said quickly.

She frowned, thinking. “Maybe ask your father. He used to read all those business journals.”

Right on cue, his father stepped through the front door, loosening his tie and sighing as if shedding the weight of the day.

“Baba,” Dylan called, “Do you know anyone named Carter? Like… Elliot Carter?”

His father paused, placing the briefcase by the sofa. “Elliot Carter… yeah. Big name in finance. Used to hear about him all the time. He and his brother ran Carter Holdings. But I think Elliot passed away years ago. Why do you ask?”

“No reason,” Dylan said, too quickly.

He didn’t mention the photo he’d found earlier that day—wedged between birthday pictures from his first few years. A toddler with wild curls and a familiar dimpled smile.

It wasn’t labeled. But someone had written a date on the back in fading ink.

Eighteen years ago.

The child in the photo looked uncannily like Aiden.

---

The next morning, Dylan was brushing his teeth when his phone buzzed on the windowsill.

Unknown number.

He almost ignored it—but something urged him to answer.

“Hello?”

A familiar, low voice came through the speaker. “Dylan. It’s Alexander.”

Dylan straightened. His toothbrush dropped into the sink.

“Is everything okay?” he asked quickly.

“I need to talk to you,” Alexander said. There was tension under the calmness, like someone trying not to show fear. “It’s about Aiden. He’s been drawing things. Saying things. Things no child should know.”

Dylan’s heart skipped. “What kind of things?”

“He said you saved him from a fire,” Alexander replied. “Not the car incident. A different one. And he keeps saying you’ve done it before. That you always protect him.”

For a moment, Dylan couldn’t breathe.

Alexander’s voice softened. “I know this sounds absurd. I wouldn’t believe it myself. But… he’s never been this attached to anyone. Not even me.”

“Where are you staying?” Dylan asked, voice steady despite the storm inside.

“A house near Lakeside Green. Temporary rental. Part of my company’s expansion project.”

“I’ll come over,” Dylan said without hesitation.

---

The villa was quiet when Dylan arrived. Too quiet.

The silence seemed to hum, like the house itself was listening.

As soon as the front door opened, Aiden ran straight toward him. “Dylan!” the boy cried, arms wide, crashing into his legs with a laugh. His lion plush dragged behind him.

Dylan knelt and lifted him instinctively. The warmth of the child against his chest felt… right. Like coming home.

Alexander stood in the hallway, arms folded. Not cold—but unreadable.

“He’s been drawing nonstop,” he said, walking toward them. “And talking about dreams. Specifically, about you.”

He handed Dylan a drawing.

Two boys stood near tall flames—one clearly older, holding the smaller one close. The taller boy wore a blue shirt, just like the one Dylan had been wearing the night he saved Aiden.

“What’s this shadow in the background?” Dylan asked.

Aiden peered over, frowning. “That’s the man who watches us. He doesn’t like hugs.”

Alexander’s face tightened.

“My father,” he said quietly. “Charles Carter. He never approved when I took Aiden in. Said it made me weak. That love makes men careless.”

Dylan didn’t reply. He looked again at the shadow. There was something predatory in the way it loomed over the flames. Something wrong.

“Has he ever met Aiden?” Dylan asked.

“Once,” Alexander said. “Aiden cried. He never asked to see him again.”

Aiden curled closer to Dylan’s side and whispered, “I only feel safe when you’re here.”

---

Later that night, after dinner, Aiden fell asleep on the couch with his lion tucked beneath his chin. Dylan stood by the window again, just like he had before.

The lake shimmered under the moonlight—calm, unmoving.

Behind him, Alexander said softly, “I don’t know what’s happening. But I’m starting to think Aiden remembers something I don’t.”

Dylan nodded, eyes on the reflection in the glass.

“I don’t think it’s just him.”

---

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