The untold story ch 1

The blue light of the monitor felt like needles pressed against my eyes. I blinked hard, trying to force the words on the screen into focus, but the letters just blurred together into grey shapes. My shoulders were stiff, aching from hours of hunching over the editing deck.
Across the small desk, Arun was rubbing the back of his neck, his expression just as drained as mine. We had spent the entire week digging through police archives, audio logs, and dark internet forums for our true-crime series. My brain felt heavy, stuffed with cotton and static.
"Arun," I murmured, my voice dry and barely rising above a whisper. "I'm too tired today. I can't even open my eyes."
I let out a slow, defeated breath, leaning my head back against the wall. "I think let's record the next part of the video tomorrow. I'm going to sleep."
Arun didn't argue. He just let out a quiet sigh of relief, turning down his own monitor. "Yeah, alright, Anu. Go ahead. We've done enough for today."
I didn't wait to second-guess it. I stood up, feeling the heavy drag of fatigue in every limb, and walked over to my bed. The moment my face hit the pillow, the exhaustion pulled me down, dragging me straight under into a deep, heavy blackness.
And then, the dream crept in.
It never started with a warning; it just appeared, fully formed and suffocating.
The air around us was thick with the sharp smell of woodsmoke and damp earth. My legs burned. I was small, desperately clinging to my mother’s back as she ran. Every breath she took sounded torn, ragged, and terrified, catching like glass in her throat.
Behind us, the dark woods were alive with angry shouts.
“Hey, stop! Stop! Where are you going? We will catch you!”
Torches flickered through the trees, casting wild, dancing red shadows over the dirt path. My mother didn't dare look back. Her feet slammed against the ground, faster and faster, until the trees suddenly parted and a massive, looming shape emerged from the fog—a giant lorry, its engine idling with a low, heavy rumble.
With a desperate burst of strength, she climbed up, pulling us both into the dark, shadowed interior of the truck, hiding us deep behind heavy canvas sacks. As the lorry jerked forward and began its long, exhausting journey all the way north to Chennai, the shouting slowly faded into the hum of the engine.
My eyes flew open.
I lay frozen in the dark of my room for a long moment, my chest heaving, the phantom echo of the lorry’s engine still ringing in my ears. My skin was cold and damp with sweat. I swallowed hard, pressing a hand against my rapidly hammering heart, waiting for the real world to rush back in and wash the panic away.
Slowly, the shadows in my room settled. The panic receded into a dull, familiar ache.
I pushed the heavy blankets off, my bare feet hitting the cool floorboards. The house was quiet, bathed in the soft, golden light of morning. Walking down the small hallway, the rich, comforting smell of brewing tea and breakfast drifted out from the kitchen.
My mother stood by the counter, her back turned, quietly stirring a pan.
I walked in, the lingering dread of the nightmare still heavy on my shoulders, and stopped right beside her.
"I saw the dream again, Amma," I whispered.