Raya's POV
The nights were the worst.
Not because of the darkness—but because of how alive it felt.
Even when the house slept, when Ammi's soft breathing drifted down the hallway and Abba's radio murmured quiet prayers behind closed doors, I could feel it. A pressure behind my eyes. A presence curling around my thoughts like smoke that refused to clear.
It wasn't outside me.
It was inside.
I lay awake, staring at the ceiling fan as it carved slow circles above me, counting each rotation as if numbers could anchor me to something solid. My chest rose and fell too fast. My fingers trembled beneath the blanket, cold despite the heat.
It's just recovery, I told myself.
Just anxiety.
But anxiety didn't whisper my name.
"Raya."
The sound slid through me—low, intimate, familiar in a way that made my stomach drop.
I sucked in a breath and sat up so fast the room tilted.
"Raya," it said again, patient now.
My heart slammed against my ribs. I pressed my palm to my chest, as if I could still it.
"Who's there?" My voice came out thin.
The shadows didn't move. Nothing stood in the corners. And yet, the presence deepened, like something leaning closer.
"Do you remember me?"
A shiver ran through me, sharp and involuntary.
"I don't know you," I whispered.
A pause. Then—not laughter, not cruelty—certainty.
"You have always known me," it said. "You simply forgot."
The air felt heavier, pressing against my lungs. My skin prickled, every nerve awake.
"I was there when you cried as a child," it continued. "When you pressed your face into pillows so no one would hear. When you begged the dark to swallow you because living felt too loud."
My stomach twisted.
"Stop," I said. "You're not real."
"If I were not real," it replied gently, "you would not be shaking."
I was.
"Why now?" I asked. "Why speak to me now?"
"Because your heart has cracked open," it said. "Because you stood at the edge and chose to stay. Because he came back."
Aaqib.
The name pulsed through me like a bruise.
"You crave life again," the voice murmured. "And I cannot allow you to forget what you belong to."
"I don't belong to anyone," I snapped. "I belong to God."
For the first time, the presence shifted—not anger, not fear, but interest.
"How beautifully you say that," it murmured. "You have always been devout. Even before this life."
Cold slid down my spine.
"What do you mean—before this life?"
Silence stretched, deliberate.
Then: "Sleep, Raya. Tomorrow will be… enlightening."
The pressure lifted abruptly, like a hand withdrawing from my mind.
I collapsed back onto the bed, breath coming in short gasps.
Nightmares didn't leave echoes like that.
Aaqib came the next afternoon.
He stood at the gate like he wasn't sure he deserved to step inside, flowers clenched in his hand, guilt written plainly across his face.
"Raya," he said softly. "I'm sorry."
Two words I had waited too long to hear.
We sat on the veranda, sunlight warming the concrete beneath us. He spoke quietly, carefully, like every sentence might shatter something fragile.
He told me about the lies—the ones he told to seem stronger, the things he hid because he was afraid honesty would cost him love. The mistakes he buried. The people he pretended didn't matter.
"I didn't want you to see me as weak," he admitted. "I didn't think you'd stay if you knew everything."
I wanted to be angry. I wanted to walk away.
But when his voice broke, something inside me softened—pity, love, exhaustion, all tangled together.
"I'm broken," I whispered.
"Then let me fix what I can," he said. "If you'll let me."
So I did.
We started small. Walks around the neighborhood. Movies where we barely paid attention. Ice cream melting faster than we could eat it.
At the cinema, he held my hand gently, like it was something fragile. When he kissed me, it was soft, hesitant—full of apology.
For a moment, I thought maybe this was what being alive meant.
But even then, something watched.
A chill slid between our fingers, sharp enough to make me flinch.
"You okay?" he asked.
"Just tired," I lied.
He's temporary, the whisper murmured faintly.
A pause. Not a future.
That evening, while my parents prayed downstairs, I wandered into Abba's study.
I don't know why.
The room smelled of old paper and oil. Shelves lined the walls, heavy with books Abba rarely touched anymore.
My fingers traced their spines until one stopped me cold.
No title. No author. Just cracked leather.
Inside were names. Dates. Stories written in careful, archaic handwriting.
Family history.
Then I saw it.
A passage marked with a faded symbol—a tree, its roots tangled around something dark.
To preserve the bloodline, a vow was made.
My breath caught.
The first daughter would be given. Not in flesh, but in fate.
"No," I whispered.
Footsteps sounded.
I slammed the book shut just as Abba appeared.
"Some things are better left alone, Raya," he said quietly.
That night, the voice returned.
"You found it," it said, satisfied. "Did you feel the truth settle into your bones?"
"Was it real?" I whispered. "The vow?"
"Yes."
"Do I love you?" I asked, hating the question.
A pause.
"You fear me. You resist me. You ache because of me. Call it what you wish."
The Entity's POV
She hears me now.
At last.
I have waited through centuries of forgetting, through lifetimes where she passed like a shadow, unaware of what she once was. I have watched her bleed quietly in this fragile body, watched her beg the heavens for peace.
She does not remember Dharan.
She does not remember the crown.
She does not remember rejecting me.
Yet her soul still bends when I speak.
They think the vow was ownership. It was not. It was binding. A promise made in fear, sealed in blood and desperation.
I did not curse her line.
I protected it.
And when she chose another life—another love—I waited.
I am patient.
I didn't sleep.
By morning, my reflection looked wrong. My eyes darker. Distant.
Aaqib came by later, trying to cheer me up. Coffee. Soft laughter. His thumb brushing my knuckles like a question.
"I love you," he said.
And beneath it, another voice whispered—
No. I do.
My heart felt like glass.
That night, the echo returned, softer now.
"You were a queen once," it said. "And you will remember."
I closed my eyes, trembling—not sure if love, fear, or destiny held me tighter.
And for the first time, I understood the truth that terrified me most:
This wasn't possession.
It was history.
And history does not let go.