A story of recognition, memory, and a meeting beyond time.

I was sitting in the corner of my dark wooden room, its walls softened by rustic green touch in places. The air felt cold, heavy with moisture — the kind that clings quietly to skin and breath. The room was simple, almost bare. A small bed. An old wooden cupboard. A tiny desk holding paper, an ink pen, and a bottle of ink. A thick white candle rested nearby, waiting. That candle was my second source of warmth and light.

Next to my bed was a perfectly square window, its corners darkened by green algae — a subtle mark of time and dampness. In another corner stood a small stove, a cabinet with grains and utensils, enough for me to cook and feed myself. Above it, a modest bookshelf held ten companions — five books that spoke of healing and inner work, and five that wandered across worlds and genres.

Some places don’t shelter us — they remember us.

I sat on my bed, caught in the quiet momentum of thought, wondering what I might write next.

Then — lightning.

For a few seconds, my small cabin lit up, as if the sky itself had leaned in to look at me. I placed my feet on the cool, dewy floor and moved toward the window. Before I could take another step, thunder cracked — loud, unapologetic — stirring something awake inside me. Chaos met calm. Excitement met stillness.

Outside was not different from within — only expanded. Darkness. Wood. Green. Water. Moist air. But arranged beautifully. Hundreds of trees stood tall, their thick trunks holding leafy canopies that curved around a lake, forming a quiet semicircle. I was living in a small treehouse, and this — this was the extent of the world I could reach.

Another flash of lightning streaked the sky, and for a moment, it felt like witnessing a living painting. Wind brushed against my face, cold and alive. I felt fully awake — every sense alert, yet held. Nature wrapped me in a kind of embrace that both calmed and stirred me at once.

All I could feel was love.

I closed my eyes and surrendered.

Warmth arrived gently, as if sunlight had finally found me after a long season in the woods. A golden light surrounded me. The air smelled like spring. When I opened my eyes, I was no longer in the cabin.

I was sitting on concrete steps beside a lake, under a bright, open sky. Flowers bloomed around me in neat bursts of colour. A book rested in one hand, a pen in the other — though I wasn’t writing. I was simply absorbing the moment.

A small boat reached the shore. People stepped out — blue jeans, black t-shirts. And then her.

She wore a red satin gown, luminous against the day. She moved lightly, playfully — part of the group, yet unmistakably apart. Her presence felt like a quiet spell. When she looked at me, our eyes met. She waved. Without thinking, I waved back.

She asked me to join them with a gesture. I hesitated. Her friends noticed me, briefly curious, quickly indifferent. She leaned toward one of them, whispered something. He handed her a small bag.

She walked toward me.

With every step, the air felt thicker — scented with flowers, humming softly. Music seemed to exist without a source. She stood before me, spoke — though I couldn’t understand her words. We spoke instead through expressions, movements, something deeper.

It felt like I had finally come home — not to a place, but to a shared spiritual knowing.

She handed me a bouquet of red roses and a bottle of rose champagne. I accepted, confused yet grateful. She bowed. I tried to tell her she was beautiful in the only language I had — sincerity.

Then she reached into the bag again and offered me a black rose.

It had no thorns.

As I touched its stem, raindrops fell onto my hand — only my hand. We stared at it in wonder, eyes wide, connected by something neither of us needed to explain.

I felt as though I had known her forever.

There was something gravitational about the bond — an invisible pull that didn’t ask for movement, only awareness. Between the brief glances we shared, it felt as if we had already spoken the deepest things — conversations not formed by words, but by memory.

It was an intimacy beyond story, beyond roles. A quiet familiarity with someone I seemed to have known across eons. In that moment, it felt like I had finally come home — not to a place, not to a person, but to a shared spiritual knowing.

My eyes blinked.

And I was back.

Standing in my wooden cabin, rain pouring outside. Thunder echoing. The black rose rested in my hand, extended beyond the window as raindrops fell upon it. The red roses and champagne were real. Tangible.

I placed them on my bookshelf, the black rose nestled gently among the red.

Later, with a hot mug of ginger and lemon warming my hands, I stood by the window once more. I wondered who she was — a memory, a mirror, a soul I had met beyond time, or was it me – myself in parallel universe ?

Some connections are not born of blood or circumstance — they arise when the mind and soul recognise what time cannot erase.

I returned to my desk, picked up my pen, and began to write.

To, My Dear One — From Beyond.

Written by Juilee Parag Parkhi