She opened her eyes to silence.
Not the tired silence that follows a long day of chores or the in-between hush when everyone else is asleep. This was different—gentle, luxurious, and unfamiliar. The kind of silence that didn’t demand anything from her. The kind she hadn’t known in years.
She lay on a bed so soft, it cradled her like a lullaby. The sheets were lavender-scented, smooth against her skin, and the morning sun kissed her face with warmth, not urgency. No alarm. No tiny fists knocking at the door. No mental checklist running wild in her head.
She sat up slowly. The room wasn’t hers—but it didn’t feel strange. It felt... made for her. Light poured in through tall windows. The walls shimmered with soft hues that shifted as she breathed. A table by the window held a cup of perfectly brewed tea and a book she had always meant to finish, but never could.
Outside, a garden bloomed wildly—roses, lilies, even her childhood favorite, kanakambaram, dancing in the breeze. Beyond that, a meadow stretched into a horizon of light. Birds sang unfamiliar songs. Somewhere, music played—a melody so faint, it seemed to be coming from within her.
She walked barefoot across grass that felt like velvet. A lake appeared, mirroring the sky, which changed color with her mood—blue when she smiled, golden when she closed her eyes.
Here, she had no responsibilities. No meals to cook, no laundry to fold, no homework to check, no calendars to organize. Here, she could breathe—not just to survive, but to feel.
She painted. Danced. Laughed aloud at silly things. She lay under trees and let dreams drift through her mind like clouds. She wore clothes that made her feel light. She slept when she wanted, woke when she pleased. Her body, once so tired, began to feel like her own again.
Each day was a gift, wrapped in rest and wonder. The world knew what she needed before she did. It listened to her heart and gave her joy without asking for anything in return.
She didn't miss being needed.
Not at first.
But time, even in a perfect world, moves quietly. And one morning, she awoke with a strange ache in her chest. The silence that had once embraced her now echoed.
She sat by the lake, watching ripples form and fade. Her fingers, once so eager to paint, trembled with longing. Her thoughts drifted—not to books or tea—but to mismatched socks, to little feet pattering down the hall, to voices calling out, “Amma, where’s my notebook?” and “Can you fix this button?”
She missed the weight of her child leaning against her during bedtime stories. The warm, grateful smile of her partner when dinner was ready. The soft chaos of a home that buzzed with life. She missed it all—the mess, the noise, the moments that made her feel rooted.
It wasn’t that she didn’t love this world—she did. It had given her something invaluable: a chance to remember herself. A reminder that she, too, was a person with dreams, fatigue, joy, and needs. But now, her heart pulled her elsewhere. Toward love. Toward purpose.
She stood by the lake and whispered, not loudly, but with certainty:
"Thank you for this. But I’m ready to go back."
The wind shifted. The flowers bowed. The sky softened to a pale, embracing hue. She felt something stir within—a merging of her worlds.
And then, gently, she woke.
She was home. In her bed. The sheets weren’t lavender-scented, and the mattress wasn’t quite cloud-like. But it was familiar. Real. Comforting.
Outside her room, she heard the clatter of dishes and the shuffle of school shoes. A voice called out, “Amma! I can’t find my socks!” Another followed, “Do we have idlis left?”
She smiled. This was her music. This was her world.
She rose—not with weariness, but with warmth. Her hands moved through the routine like a dance, but something had changed. A part of that dream world remained within her. A softness in how she spoke. A quiet pride in all that she did. A deeper knowing that she wasn’t just a doer of tasks—she was the heart of the home.
And every once in a while, when she sipped her tea or paused at the window, she would feel it again—that breeze from the other world. A reminder.
That she mattered.
That her dreams mattered.
That resting was not escape—it was healing.
And that even as she gave herself to her family, she would never again forget to keep a piece of herself.
A world away had shown her what she had always needed:
not to leave, but to return whole.
Now, she moved through her days with a quiet power. Not loud. Not flashy. But real.
Because even in the busiest hours, she carried that other world within her.
A whisper of peace.
A pocket of light.
A place where she remembered who she was.
A world away, yes.
But a heart, always, at home.
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