The Boy Who Remembered

Aryan had always known the world was broken. He just didn't know how deep the cracks went.

The morning sun rose over the city, its golden light spilling across the rooftops and painting the streets in hues of amber and gold. But to Aryan, the light felt harsh and unnatural, like it was shining through a filter of despair. He stood at his bedroom window, his breath fogging the glass as he stared out at the world below. Something felt... off. It wasn't the first time he'd felt this way. For as long as he could remember, he'd noticed things others didn't. Small things, at first. A tree in his backyard that suddenly had a different shape. A neighbor's dog that no one else remembered owning. A street sign that changed overnight, its letters rearranged into something unfamiliar. At first, he thought it was his imagination. But as he grew older, the changes became harder to ignore.

He stepped outside, the crisp morning air biting at his skin. The streets were alive with the usual bustle—vendors setting up their stalls, children laughing as they ran to school, the hum of traffic filling the air. Yet, beneath the surface, there was an eerie stillness, as if the world itself was holding its breath.

Aryan walked past the market, his feet carrying him on autopilot. He didn't know why, but he felt drawn to the temple. It had always been a place of comfort for him, a sanctuary where he could escape the noise of the world. But as he turned the corner, his legs froze. His breath caught in his throat.

The temple was gone.

Not destroyed. Not abandoned. It had simply never existed. In its place was an empty park, overgrown with weeds and littered with broken benches. Aryan's heart pounded in his chest, each beat echoing in his ears like a drum. He blinked, rubbed his eyes, and looked again. The park remained, unchanged.

"No," he whispered, his voice trembling. "This isn't possible."

He stumbled forward, his legs unsteady, and reached out to touch the rusted gate of the park. It felt real—cold and solid beneath his fingers. His mind raced, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. He turned to a passerby, an elderly man walking his dog.

"Excuse me," Aryan said, his voice shaking. "Where's the temple that used to be here?"

The man frowned, his brow furrowing in confusion. "Temple? There's never been a temple here, son. Just this old park."

Aryan's stomach dropped. He felt like the ground was crumbling beneath him, pulling him into a void. He turned and ran, his feet pounding against the pavement as he sprinted home. His thoughts were a chaotic whirlwind, each one more terrifying than the last.

"Mom!" he burst through the door, his voice cracking with panic.

His mother turned from the stove, her face a mask of concern. "Aryan? What's wrong?"

"The temple," he gasped, struggling to catch his breath. "The one near the market. Where is it?"

She frowned, her eyes narrowing as she studied him. "Temple? What temple?"

Aryan's heart sank. "The one you prayed at every morning! You took me there when I was little!"

His mother's expression softened, but her voice was firm. "Aryan, I've never prayed in my life. Are you feeling okay?"

"No!" he shouted, his voice rising in desperation. "This isn't right! Dad!" He turned to his father, who was sitting at the kitchen table, reading the newspaper. "Tell her! The temple near the market!"

His father lowered the paper and raised an eyebrow. "Temple? Son, what are you talking about?"

Aryan's hands trembled as he grabbed his phone and dialed his best friend, Rishi. The phone rang once, twice, before Rishi picked up.

"Bro," Aryan said, his voice barely above a whisper. "What's your religion?"

There was a pause. Then Rishi laughed, the sound hollow and unfamiliar. "What's a religion? wait... are you talking about those cults 'Eternal Flame' , dude... whole world is in chaos because of them."

Aryan's blood ran cold. His grip on the phone tightened until his knuckles turned white. "Rishi, this isn't funny. What do you believe in? What do you worship?"

Rishi's laughter faded, replaced by a tone of genuine confusion. "Man, you say the weirdest things. Worship? Believe in? I don't know what you're talking about. Anyway, did you see the news? Another war broke out today. Feels like the world is tearing itself apart."

Aryan didn't respond. His mind was spinning, his thoughts a chaotic storm of fear and disbelief. He ended the call and turned on the TV. The screen flickered to life, showing a news anchor speaking in a grave tone.

"The Religious cult mediating global affairs, war and oppression have escalated," the anchor said. "The Order of the Eternal Flame, the dominant belief system for over two millennia, now controls most of the world, enforcing strict rules on society. Women are no longer allowed to make their own choices, and those who refuse to follow the Order's doctrine face execution. Experts fear that the worst is yet to come."

Aryan's hands clenched into fists, his nails digging into his palms. The Order of the Eternal Flame? He'd never heard of it before. How could a religion he'd never even known about dominate the entire world? And why did it feel so... artificial, as if it had been planted into history like a seed?

His heart pounded as the realization struck. This wasn't just a world without religion. This was a world where religion had been replaced—by something far more sinister. Someone had gone back in time and rewritten history, erasing all faiths and replacing them with this... this fabrication. A religion designed to control, to dominate, to enslave. And he was the only one who remembered the truth.

A wave of nausea washed over him, and he sank to his knees. The room spun around him, the walls closing in. He felt like he was drowning, gasping for air in a world that no longer made sense.

"This isn't my world," he whispered, his voice breaking. "This isn't my world."

And then, as if in response, a faint whisper echoed in his mind—a voice he didn't recognize, cold and distant.

"You're right, Aryan. This isn't your world. But it's the one you'll have to live in."

His head snapped up, his eyes darting around the room. "Who's there?" he demanded, his voice trembling. There was no answer. Only silence.

Aryan sat on the edge of his bed, his head in his hands. He thought back to all the changes he'd witnessed over the years—the small shifts in reality that no one else noticed. They had been leading to this. Someone had been manipulating time, and now the world was paying the price.

He turned on his laptop and began searching for information about the Order of the Eternal Flame. The more he read, the more his unease grew. The Order wasn't just a religion—it was a machine, a system designed to control every aspect of human life. Its origins were shrouded in mystery, but its influence was undeniable.

The Order's doctrine was simple: obedience and submission. It taught that the Eternal Flame—a divine force that had existed since the dawn of time—had chosen its followers to rule the world. Those who resisted were heretics, deserving of punishment. Those who obeyed were promised eternal salvation.

But what struck Aryan the most was the Order's history. According to the records, it had existed for over two thousand years, its roots tracing back to an ancient civilization that had long since vanished. But Aryan knew better. He remembered a world where the Order didn't exist, where religion was diverse and free. Someone had gone back in time and planted the Order like a seed, nurturing it until it grew into a monstrous tree whose branches now covered the entire world.

He scrolled through images of the Order's leaders—men and women dressed in flowing robes, their faces serene and unreadable. They were called the Keepers of the Flame, and they ruled with an iron fist. Their word was law, and their laws were absolute.

Aryan's stomach churned as he read about the Order's practices. Women were forbidden from holding positions of power. Dissent was punished with public executions. And anyone who questioned the Order's teachings was labeled a heretic and hunted down.

But the most chilling part was the Order's ultimate goal: to create a perfect world, free from the chaos of free will. They believed that humanity was inherently flawed, that only through strict control could true peace be achieved. And they were willing to do whatever it took to achieve that goal—even if it meant rewriting history itself.

Aryan's hands trembled as he closed his laptop. He felt like he was staring into the abyss, and the abyss was staring back. The Order wasn't just a religion—it was a weapon, a tool used by someone to reshape the world in their own image and he was the only one who could stop them.

Aryan thought back to the first time he'd noticed something was wrong. He was six years old, and his favorite blue blanket had turned red overnight. He'd run to his mother, clutching the blanket in his tiny hands.

"Mom, my blanket changed color!" he said, his voice trembling.

She frowned, looking at him with concern. "Aryan, it's always been red. Are you feeling okay?"

He stared at her, his heart pounding. It hadn't always been red. He knew it hadn't. But no one else remembered. Not his parents, not his friends, not even his teachers. He felt like he was losing his mind.

Over the years, the changes became more frequent. A road he walked every day to school suddenly had an extra turn. A friend's birthday was a month earlier than he remembered. A building he passed every day vanished, replaced by an empty lot. Each time, he was the only one who noticed. Each time, he felt more alone.

By the time he was a teenager, he had learned to keep his observations to himself. People didn't understand. They thought he was making things up, or worse, that he was crazy. But he knew the truth. The world was changing, and he was the only one who could see it.

And now, as he sat in his room, the weight of it all pressed down on him, threatening to crush him. He felt like he was drowning, gasping for air in a sea of despair.

And then, as if in response, the voice returned.

"Aryan," it said. "You are not alone. We will guide you. But the path ahead will not be easy. You must be strong."

Aryan took a deep breath, his hands clenched into fists. He didn't know if he could do this. But he had to try. For the world. For everyone who no longer remembered the truth.

He stood up, his resolve hardening. He would find the time traveler. He would undo what had been done. And he would restore the world to what it was meant to be.

No matter the cost.

------ to be continued