He walked till the forest thinned, till the ground grew cold again.
Then, a structure.
Not a temple.
Not a ruin.
Just… a square stone room with no roof.
Inside, the walls shimmered faintly — like they had been polished with ash and tears.
At the center:
A slab of obsidian.
Not a mirror.
Not a window.
But something in between.
The Saadhak stepped closer.
No idols.
No chants.
Only silence that weighed.
He leaned in, expecting a reflection.
But the stone did not return to his face.
It showed others.
A version of him that chose marriage over meditation.
A version that became a corporate success, sipping wine but haunted at night.
A version that died young, never speaking the truth.
A version that never existed — pure, luminous, terrifying in stillness.
He stepped back. The stone followed.
Now, it reflects his current self.
But the face was blurred.
Melted.
Featureless.
A voice, deep and neutral, echoed from the walls:
“You are afraid not of demons… but of decisions.
“You seek freedom, yet mourn the paths you didn’t walk.”
“You wear pain like a badge and call it destiny.”
The Saadhak trembled.
“Who are you?” he whispered.
No answer.
Only an image—
Of him shaving his head, giving away all books, and walking naked into a city.
Then another—
Of him weeping at his mother’s funeral, refusing to light the pyre.
Then another—
Of him hugging a beggar and realizing they were once lovers in another birth.
He dropped to his knees.
Not in prayer.
But because the weight of who he was could’ve crushed him.
The voice returned.
“You will not cross until you forgive them all.”
“All the ‘you’s you abandoned.”
The Saadhak, for the first time, did not chant.
Did not resist.
He simply said:
“I’m sorry. I tried the best I knew.”
The mirror cracked.
Not broken.
Just… real.
Now it showed only one thing:
His eyes.
Still blurred, but slowly clearing.
A shadow appeared behind him.
No face.
Just breathe.
“Ready?” it asked.
He turned.
And nodded.
As he stepped out of the shrine,
the sun returned.
Warm. Real.
But not blinding.
A dog followed him now.
Black, silent, walking at his pace.
Ahead —
a crimson smoke rising from the cliffs.
Where Bhairavi waited.