The Echo of Dreams

Happy Birthday, Rihan!

I scrolled past yet another virtual birthday message on my social media wall. The echo of hollow well-wishes thudded in my chest, like the empty beat of a cheap drum. Friends, connected yet so far apart. The idea of celebration felt like a distant relic, overshadowed by the cold blue light of my screen. Just as I was about to shut it all down, a new notification blinked in the corner. Another message.

I read it.

Happy Birthday, writer!

The word struck me like a blade. Writer. My breath caught; my fingers stilled. That single word, once a source of pride, now twisted inside me like broken glass. The dreams it represented—the ones I had shelved—prickled, each second dragging out the pain. I tried to look away, to pretend it didn't matter, but my eyes were glued to the screen, trapped in a silent confrontation. The clock ticked on, minutes stretched thin, until finally, the screen dimmed and faded to black. A single tap could wake it again, but I recoiled from the thought.

I stood, fleeing the scene like a thief escaping his own crime. Outside, the cool evening breeze brushed against my face, soothing the storm that raged inside. Without direction, I drifted toward the market square. A stranger bumped into me in the crowd, offering a quick apology before disappearing back into the sea of people. A fleeting thought crossed my mind—would our paths ever cross again? But logic scoffed at the idea.

Writer.

The word echoed, haunting the hollow spaces of my mind. Before I knew it, I found myself standing in front of a small, familiar bookstore. The bell above the door chimed softly as I stepped inside. The scent of aged paper and polished wood enveloped me. The shopkeeper, his face lined with years, glanced up and squinted in recognition.

"Rihan? It's been a while."

A faint smile tugged at my lips.

"New arrivals just came in," he rasped, nodding toward the rows of towering shelves.

I gave a slow nod, but inside, a heaviness settled. Once, these shelves had felt alive with possibility. Every book had whispered to me, daring me to create something better. Now, they loomed like silent giants, mocking me. My fingers brushed the worn spine of a familiar book, one I had cherished. As I flipped through its pages, the words seemed to taunt me. Something broke inside, and before I could stop it, a tear fell onto the page, blurring a single word: Dream.

The chime above the door rang again, breaking the moment. With a sigh, I slipped the book back onto the shelf and turned to leave.

Dream.

The word lingered, stirring something faint within me, like an ember buried deep.

Dream.

Each step toward the door reignited a flicker of defiance, a feeling I hadn't allowed myself in years.

Dream.

I pushed through the door, the bell clanging behind me. And in that instant, something shifted—a truth long buried resurfaced, like a missing puzzle piece snapping into place.

In that moment, I made a decision.

A spark had ignited.