OBEY THE FLAME

BURNING IN HIS ARMS

OBEY THE FLAME

​CHAPTER 5: BURNING IN HIS ARMS

​“He touches me like a prayer—one that never asks for forgiveness.”

​The hospital room felt like a sterile coffin painted in cold, unforgiving white. The rhythmic, monotonous beeping of the vitals monitor filled the air, mocking the heavy silence that sat in my chest. On the bedside table, a glass of water remained completely untouched, and deep shadows had pooled permanently under my eyes. I lay perfectly still in the narrow bed, my gaze fixed intently on the blank ceiling as if it were stitched with distant, unreachable stars.

​Outside, the evening rain whispered dark secrets against the glass windowpane. Inside, my body hadn't moved in hours. I had been frozen since the breakdown—since my mother’s trembling, broken voice had uttered the words that completely shattered my fragile reality.

​He is dead. Burned. Gone.

​But grief and trauma are never that simple. They don't just vanish when the threat is gone. They fold over your mind, looping back in unexpected ways, resurrecting the very ghosts you fought so hard to escape. And tonight, my fractured mind resurrected him.

​In the shifting shadows of my thoughts, the sterile hospital room began to dissolve. It was no longer a ward of sickness; it was a bridal chamber, draped in heavy maroon silk and illuminated by the flickering, warm glow of candlelight. The air grew thick with the intoxicating fragrance of rose attar and fresh jasmine garlands. In the background, a soft, haunting Urdu melody hummed through the silence, sounding ancient and sacred.

​I wasn’t broken here. I wasn't the victim. I was a bride.

​And he was standing right there—alive, radiant, and dressed in an ivory sherwani with gold buttons that gleamed like little suns under the candlelight.

​"Ahyan," I whispered, sitting up slowly on the velvet cushions, my heavy silk dupatta sliding gracefully from my shoulder.

​He smiled, and a familiar warmth flooded my veins. "I told you I’d come for you, jaan," his voice echoed softly, carrying none of the cruelty from before.

​"They told me you were dead," I murmured, my voice cracking with a sudden, desperate longing.

​Ahyan stepped closer, his warm fingers cupping my cheek with an impossible tenderness. "They say many things, Riya. But you knew better. You kept me alive in every verse you wrote, in every song you ever sang."

​My delusion deepened, wrapping around me like a protective shield against the harsh truth. He lifted my hand—where the faint fragrance of fading mehndi still lingered—and pressed a soft, lingering kiss directly into my palm. His breath felt real against my skin, his lips softer than any memory I possessed.

​"No more fear," he murmured, his dark eyes locking onto mine with an intense, hypnotic focus. "Just the flame. Just us."

​I felt myself completely melting into the illusion. My body, which had been numb and paralyzed for days, now tingled with a sudden, overwhelming warmth. I reached out, my fingers tracing the sharp lines of his face, finding comfort in a reality my mind had custom-built to save myself from the pain. My fingers trailed down his throat, brushing past the gold buttons of his attire.

​If this is madness, I told myself, clutching onto his shoulders, then I will never ask for clarity again.

​He pulled me close until our breaths tangled together like delicate silk threads. Leaning down, he pressed a soft kiss to my collarbone, his voice a low whisper in the dark. "You’re mine, Riya. Even in death, I burn for you."

​"Then let me burn too," I whispered back, wrapping my arms tightly around him, needing to feel a presence that reality had stolen away. "Let us be ash together."

​In that imagined world, the poetry that had been stolen from me began to slip back into my thoughts like incense smoke:

​“In your touch, I become a wound that heals itself—

A flame that learns to burn gently.

Make me yours like moonlight owns the sea—

Silent, savage, sacred.”

​He held me with a reverence I had never known in life, his hands moving slowly, as if reading a sacred verse written on my skin. Every touch seemed to rewrite the trauma, replacing the memories of fear with a deep, consuming sense of surrender. He lowered his mouth to the hollow of my neck, and I arched into his warmth, completely lost in a beautiful, fabricated peace.

​"Do you remember the first time I kissed you?" Ahyan whispered against my ear, his embrace tightening. "You tasted like a storm. Tonight, you taste like absolute surrender."

​I kissed him back with the desperation of a drowning person, as if I had waited lifetimes for this single, peaceful moment. Our rhythm was slow and devotional, a silent promise whispered in the dark.

​"You make me forget the darkness," I panted softly against his lips. "You make me feel alive again."

​"You are alive, Riya. You are mine. Always."

​The fantasy wove itself tighter around my senses, drowning out the world outside:

​“Your mouth writes psalms on my skin.

Your hands teach me worship.

If this is madness—

Then may I never wake.”

​I clung to him as if gravity itself were failing, begging the phantom to stay forever. And in that imagined world, as the candles flickered wildly, a deep, shuddering sense of peace finally washed over me. I lay my head against his chest, my fingers tracing quiet circles over his heart, completely at rest for the first time in weeks.

​"I don’t want to wake up," I whispered into the darkness.

​"Then sleep, my love," the ghost replied softly, stroking my hair. "I’ll watch over you."

​REALITY

​In the real world, the hospital gown I wore was wrinkled and cold. I lay perfectly flat on the stiff mattress, my limbs unmoving and my glazed eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. The IV fluid continued to drip in a steady, mechanical rhythm. A nurse walked into the quiet room, adjusting the edge of my blanket and frowning slightly at my absolute stillness.

​Outside in the corridor, Raheela sat on a plastic chair, clutching her prayer beads tightly to her chest, sobbing silently into her shawl.

​Inside the room, my lips moved silently, whispering to an empty space that no one else could see.

​"You made me feel like honey," I muttered to the empty ceiling, a faint, phantom smile touching the corners of my mouth. "Like fire. Kiss me again before they take you away."

​A doctor entered a moment later, checking my vitals with a practiced efficiency. He noted my lack of responsiveness, describing the state to the nurse as catatonic but verbal, before recommending a mild sedative and a formal psychiatric consult.

​But they didn’t understand. They didn’t know that I was already miles away, completely unreachable. I wasn't trapped in that cold hospital room anymore. I was safely wrapped in a night that never happened, residing in a beautiful, warm bridal chamber that smelled of rich perfume and endless longing. I was still dancing with a ghost.

​“He undressed my sorrow like silk.

Loved me slow like I was borrowed time.

If death is what it takes to feel again—

Then bury me in his arms.”