Chapter 10: The Dream That Wasn't Hers

That night, the cave breathed quietly.

Snow whispered along the mountain edge. The fire had dimmed to a soft orange glow, pulsing against the stone walls like a steady heart.

Draupadi slept with her arm outstretched.

And in the crook between her and Bhima lay Agnika, bundled in soft shawls, her little fingers barely reaching Bhima’s massive shoulder.

She was warm. Safe. Loved.

And yet—

Somewhere in the night, her small body shivered.

Her breath hitched.

Her fingers clenched.

---

In her dream, Agnika was no longer a baby.

Not quite a child either.

She walked through mist — heavy, quiet mist — that carried the scent of battle and memory.

She saw trees twisted with sorrow.

She saw fireflies flicker like falling stars.

And then…

She saw him.

Not the Bhima she knew — laughing, loud, fierce.

But a younger Bhima.

Standing beside a strange, beautiful woman in forest robes.

And a little boy beside them.

The woman’s hand rested gently on Bhima’s chest. The boy looked up at him like he was a mountain made of love.

Agnika didn’t know their names.

But she felt the weight of them.

The goodbye in the woman’s eyes.

The ache in Bhima’s silence.

She reached out in the dream—

Just as the image shattered.

Ashes fell from the sky.

And Agnika stood alone.

With the echo of a boy’s laughter

that never reached manhood.

---

She woke up choking on a sob.

Her tiny body trembled.

She made no sound at first — just tears, falling silently, as her arms reached out instinctively… toward Bhima.

The big warrior stirred at once, alarmed. “Hey—Agnika? Little one?”

He lifted her gently. Her face was wet, eyes wide, lips quivering.

Bhima frowned, wiping her cheek. “Did something scare you?”

She didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

But her small hand gripped the edge of his shawl and pulled it to her cheek.

Then—softly—she laid her head against his heart.

Not to sleep.

But as if to say:

> I saw it.

I know what you lost.

I’m sorry.

Bhima went still.

His throat tightened.

No one had spoken of Hidimbi or Ghatotkacha in years.

He had buried that chapter like a sword too heavy to carry.

And yet this tiny girl — who could barely say a word — held him now with the gentleness of one who had walked through his silence.

He whispered hoarsely, “You dream someone else’s pain now?”

She gave a quiet whimper. A small nod against his chest.

He wrapped both arms around her.

> “You’re too little to carry all that.”

She didn’t answer.

But she didn’t let go either.

---

Draupadi, half-awake, watched from her side.

She didn’t interrupt.

Some wounds aren’t meant to be healed with words.

Some only mend…

> When remembered

by someone who shouldn’t even know them.

---

🌘 End of Chapter 10