Haala Humayun
If I were to turn a mystery from my own life into a book, it would be called "The Unfinished Tale."
It all began with a story I never intended to write. A dream—so vivid, so detailed—that it felt like a memory borrowed from another lifetime. It wasn’t just a fragment; it was a complete world, filled with characters who had lived, loved, and fought battles unknown to history. Their names, their struggles, their destinies—everything was as clear as if I had read it before.
But here’s the mystery: I had never written this story. It existed only in my mind, yet it felt like something I was meant to complete. Every time I tried to ignore it, strange coincidences followed—an old book with eerily similar themes appearing in a forgotten corner of a library, symbols I had never studied yet somehow recognized, and the creeping feeling that the story was waiting for me to return.
Was it just the overactive imagination of a writer, or was I unknowingly connected to something greater? A lost legend? A forgotten prophecy? A story trapped between time and ink, waiting for the right hands to give it form?
The answer remains unknown, but one thing is certain—some stories don’t belong to the writer. The writer belongs to the story.
And perhaps, just perhaps, this is one of them.
It all began with a story I never intended to write. A dream—so vivid, so detailed—that it felt like a memory borrowed from another lifetime. It wasn’t just a fragment; it was a complete world, filled with characters who had lived, loved, and fought battles unknown to history. Their names, their struggles, their destinies—everything was as clear as if I had read it before.
But here’s the mystery: I had never written this story. It existed only in my mind, yet it felt like something I was meant to complete. Every time I tried to ignore it, strange coincidences followed—an old book with eerily similar themes appearing in a forgotten corner of a library, symbols I had never studied yet somehow recognized, and the creeping feeling that the story was waiting for me to return.
Was it just the overactive imagination of a writer, or was I unknowingly connected to something greater? A lost legend? A forgotten prophecy? A story trapped between time and ink, waiting for the right hands to give it form?
The answer remains unknown, but one thing is certain—some stories don’t belong to the writer. The writer belongs to the story.
And perhaps, just perhaps, this is one of them.
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