Author's Pov-

Prakriti felt a sudden splash of cold that pulled her from the warm haze of sleep.

“Prakriti! Get up! It’s already eleven!”

Her eyes flew open, blinking against the morning light that spilled through the curtains. Her mother stood at the doorway, hands on her hips, an expression that combined frustration and amusement.

“Mom! What—why—” Prakriti sputtered, still half in the world she had left behind only moments ago.

“I said eleven o’clock! And you’re still buried under your blanket like a mole. Breakfast is long over,” her mother scolded, though there was a teasing edge to her voice.

Prakriti rubbed her eyes and tried to remember where she was. The colors, the laughter, the chaos—it all rushed back in fragments, leaving her both exhilarated and disoriented.

“I… I just… lost track of time,” she muttered, still wrapped in the fog of her dream.

Her mother narrowed her eyes. “Lost track? Prakriti, you have responsibilities, you know. How are you going to finish your designs if you sleep through half the day?”

“I know, I know…” Prakriti replied, sitting up, pushing the tangled sheets off. Her mother shook her head, muttering something about “lazy girls these days,” and left the room with the finality of a gentle thunderclap.

The room was quiet again.

And then her gaze fell on her bedside table.

The book was there—her Rudraksh—just sitting quietly, innocent and ordinary in its place. Yet it carried all the weight of her dream.

She picked it up, turning it over in her hands. The cover seemed to shimmer faintly in the morning sun, as if it knew the secrets it held.

Her heart skipped. That dream—the festival, the chase, the colors, the laughter, the man—everything felt so vivid, so alive. But he had been faceless, like a shadow painted in fragments of imagination and longing.

She traced the spine of the book and whispered softly, almost to herself, “Who are you? Why do you feel so… real?”

Prakriti sank onto the edge of her bed, her mind replaying the dream in fragments: his hands, the warmth of his presence, the way he had looked at her during the festival, the playful chase, the way he had called her name just as the water splashed. Every detail burned into her memory.

She shook her head slightly, a small smile tugging at her lips, tinged with both wonder and longing. “I don’t even know your name… and yet… I feel like I’ve always known you.”

Her fingers brushed the cover again, lingering on the title. Her Rudraksh. She whispered it aloud, savoring the sound. “Her… Rudraksh. Who are you really?”

Her eyes softened, and a small sigh escaped her lips. The dream had ended—but the feeling lingered. And now, in the quiet of her room, it felt almost unbearable in its intensity.

“Will you… will you ever be real?” she asked the empty air. “Or will you only exist in my dreams, chasing me through colors I can’t reach?”

She leaned back against the headboard, closing her eyes. The memories of his faceless figure—the laughter, the chase, the warmth, the sudden call of her name—played again and again in her mind. Her heartbeat quickened at the memory, and she realized she hadn’t stopped thinking about it even after waking.

A part of her wondered if this was a glimpse of something destined, something waiting to unfold. Another part of her feared it would remain just a dream—a vivid, intoxicating, impossible dream.

Yet she couldn’t let go. She couldn’t stop imagining him. The thought of that faceless man lingered, teasing, promising, challenging her to believe that someday… he might step out of the shadows and into her reality.

Prakriti whispered once more, almost as if asking for guidance, “Who are you, Rudraksh? And… will you ever find me?”

The room was still. The morning light caught on the cover of the book again. She held it close, letting the silence speak the answers she didn’t yet know.

And somewhere deep inside, a small, unshakable hope took root—that dreams this vivid, this alive, were never meaningless.