The Forgotten Dream: Whispers of an Ancient Species

The fire crackled under a twilight sky, shadows dancing across the towering trees. A hush settled over the gathering as the elder’s voice wove the first thread of the story. I sat among them, though I did not belong here. My body felt foreign—taller, stronger, ancient. My hands traced the rough patterns on my skin, symbols I did not understand. This was not my time. Yet, I remembered.

"Before we were human, before the world was as you know it, the sky-beasts ruled above us," the elder murmured. "They carried the great ones across the heavens, gliding between the stars." His voice was not filled with wonder, but with reverence. These were not birds. Not beasts. They were something greater.

A low cry pierced the sky. I looked up. Wings shimmered, moving without effort. Vast, luminous beings soared above the treetops, their forms rippling like the ocean in the wind. The Vimanas.

"They are not made of metal or wood, as the stories will say in the time to come," the elder continued. "They are alive. Thinking. Choosing." The others bowed as the creatures passed overhead, their cries reverberating deep in my chest. The great ones rode them, their forms blending with their celestial mounts.

The memory felt real. Too real. But then I saw it: the fire flickering, the elder’s face shifting in the dim glow. I was not myself. I was one of them.

A new scene unraveled in my mind. The first ones to call themselves 'human' stood in the clearing, their glowing eyes deep with wisdom. They spoke a tongue I somehow understood. "One day, we will leave," the elder said. "And others will take our place. They will find our stories and think they are their own."

The sky-beasts circled above, their presence as constant as the air itself. "They will call us gods, or myths, or memories. But they will not remember who we truly were."

A shiver ran down my spine. Was he speaking of me? Of my people?

The fire burned lower. My form was shifting. The ancient ones looked at me, as if seeing something I could not yet comprehend. "You will wake soon," the elder whispered. "And you will forget."

My eyes opened to the dim glow of my room. My own hands. My own skin. Yet the echoes of that world still clung to me.

What if the first to call themselves human were not like us? What if our myths were fragments of a species lost to time?

What if the Vimanas were never machines, but creatures of the sky—beings we could no longer comprehend?

Perhaps the Ramayana, the Mahabharata, and the stories we hold sacred are not fiction, but fractured memories.

Perhaps we were not the first to dream. Not the first to name ourselves. Not the first to tell stories.

Perhaps we are merely the last ones listening.

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