The Birthday.

Staffordshire wasn’t that hot. He woke up sweating. This was not the first time he had had those dreams. It was a part of him. Something he had lived with, for as long as his 12 year old memory could go. He sat up, rubbed his eyes and reached out for the side table. With the note book in his lap, he turned to the last empty page and penned down a few lines: 
  
“At the end of day, in my land of dreams,
You fill my heart, you fulfil my thirst;
Let me glow with your fiery soul
You are the road to the home I knew first.
In a world of love and blessings
Twilight clouds till the sky’s end;
You will live quietly, deep in my heart
Is this, what wonder is called, my friend?

  
He neatly put the date on top and flipped through the earlier pages. He smoothed his hand over them and felt the depressions made by his ink. It was breathing. He smiled inwardly. This was him.  Writing, to him, was like pouring out his soul into a bottle, and sealing it forever. His mother called out to him. He smiled a little more. He took up his pen to sign just as he did after every piece. He looked down and gasped. A mass of silvery white hair brushed the page. He saw his own hand, slender and wrinkled, write a script he knew not of. 

জন্মদিনের শুভেচ্ছার জন্য রইল আমার অসংখ্য ধন্যবাদ ।

He blinked. There was nothing but a blotch of ink where he was about to sign. His mother called out again, “Robin, hurry up and brush your teeth”. He jumped out of bed and tottered towards the bathroom looking back at his notebook with awe. The date on top caught the sunlight. 9^th May, 2014.