The sun poured its golden breath over Nandipur, casting long shadows that danced lazily on the cobblestone paths. The town, nestled like a forgotten jewel in the folds of West Bengal, was awake but unhurried. Every morning seemed dipped in nostalgia, as if time itself had folded into the creases of memory.
At the heart of Nandipur stood the banyan tree—a sentinel of centuries, its roots coiling into the earth like secrets whispered to stone. Children played beneath its vast canopy, lovers carved initials into its bark, and old men claimed it remembered every footstep that ever passed. Legend had it that if one stood beneath it long enough, the tree spoke. Not in words, but in images—visions drawn from the soul's quiet chambers.
🔸 **Avni** stepped into Nandipur for the first time in years, the wheels of her suitcase rattling over uneven stones. She had once spent childhood summers here, when her grandmother was alive and stories grew like wildflowers. Now, grief curled inside her like mist. A successful writer whose recent novels had grown hollow, she had come seeking silence… and perhaps, rebirth.
She stopped before the banyan, placing her palm against its ancient trunk. Its bark was cool, rough like crumpled paper. Her breath stilled. A memory flickered—her grandmother telling her tales of whispered truths and people who saw what they weren't ready for. Avni blinked. The moment passed, but something stirred.
🔸 **Rohan**, in his rust-stained bicycle and perpetually rumpled kurta, passed by with barely a glance. A history teacher at the local school, Rohan considered legends distractions from facts. He harbored little patience for sentiment, especially the kind wrapped in superstition. Yet even he, on rare nights, stood beneath the tree with hands trembling and thoughts too loud. He claimed it was the wind, nothing more. But he never stayed long.
🔸 **Tara**, fifteen and all fire, darted across the square with a sketchpad tucked under her arm. She wasn't born in Nandipur—her parents had moved after the pandemic in search of calm. Tara found calm stifling. She drew the banyan obsessively: the twists of its branches, the shadows like arms reaching. She hadn't told anyone yet, but the tree appeared in her dreams, whispering in voices she didn't recognize.
🔸 **Dev**, hidden in a rundown cottage near the edge of town, hadn't spoken to anyone in years. Locals called him "Ghostwalker"—he moved like fog, vanished before greetings landed. Some said he had once been a soldier, others a doctor. No one knew, and no one dared ask. He visited the banyan every dusk, standing motionless, eyes closed. Birds never sang when Dev was near. Children stopped laughing. Something about him bent the air.
One by one, fate was unfurling its threads toward the banyan's ancient heart.
That evening, as crimson bled across the sky, the four strangers found themselves beneath its canopy at the same time. Not by plan, nor by coincidence.
The wind changed. The leaves whispered in tongues forgotten. The earth shuddered, ever so slightly. And the banyan began to dream.
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