You, the Whisper Across Lifetime

Chapter 14: Threads Beneath the Surface

I didn't have many friends. Never did.

Not because I couldn't make them, but because I rarely needed noise around me. I've always been more solitary by nature—quiet, observant, holding most things inside.

I had a few close ones. True ones. The kind of friends who understood silence, who didn't need to be entertained. Some of them, I could even call soul family—those who stayed through winters and droughts, not just springs.

And there was my spiritual circle. We weren't bound by religion or dogma. We were connected by something else—an inner pull. A call that wasn't always easy to explain, only to feel.

We were all searching, not outwardly, but inwardly—digging through layers, past pain and ego, trying to find something real. Something buried beneath the noise of this world.

We didn't gather to be formal. No robes, no chants in unison. Just an intent to connect more inwardly. Sometimes five or six of us would end up in a yoga studio together, holding space in silence, then grabbing food after or spontaneously buying tickets to a horror movie. Indonesian horror movies—over the top, full of jump scares and pounding sounds that made us cover our eyes. Ridiculous fun. Psychic or not, we all jumped the same.

We still laughed at ourselves afterward. Silly how we paid to be scared out of our wits.

Then the pandemic hit. And that rhythm—like everyone else's—fell away.

As the number of victims rose, the fear grew. The world slowed. Our regular outings disappeared. The monthly gatherings turned into WhatsApp group calls or Skype sessions. We still tried to meditate together—each of us in our own corner, syncing through breath and intent.

We focused on sending good energy into our surroundings, keeping the thread of connection alive. And we reminded each other, morning and night, to take care of ourselves—to stay grounded, stay healthy, stay whole.

To keep each other anchored, to remind ourselves to breathe.

Maybe it's the compensation of lockdown, restrictions for gatherings made our group chat became lively.

Chats in the group were a mix of everything. Sometimes serious—talking about spiritual growth, energy shifts, or how to deal with sudden emotional waves. Other times, we were just cracking jokes, teasing each other with the kind of blunt honesty that only comes with trust.

Sometimes our messages sounded like barb-tipped words—sarcasm, dry humor, or playful roasts—but nobody took them personally. Other time our chats turned into full-on comedy. We threw words at each other like siblings would—half insults, half love. Nobody ever got offended. It was how we spoke. It worked for us.

We knew the tone. We knew the heart behind the words. It was brother-sisterhood, in the truest sense.

Even in the middle of a global crisis, that thread of connection made things feel a little less heavy.

One night, after one of those group meditations, I stayed on the mat a little longer.

The others had signed off already. The house was quiet. Outside, the garden was still. It wasn't sleep that pulled at me, though I already lied on my bed—it was something else. A pull inward. Not sharp. Just steady.

Not a sudden vision, more like a slow drift. A shift.

Then it came—clearer than usual.

I saw a massive building, old and full of detail. The kind of structure that didn't just exist but carried weight. Not from age alone, but from meaning. I found myself inside its vast structure. Huge. Ancient. And yet… not cold. The kind of space that carried presence. Time folded into stone. I didn't know the name, but it felt familiar.

There was a dome, high and wide, but what caught me first was the floor.

Granite, cool under bare feet. Polished with age. Near the doorway, it had a pattern—nothing too bold, just enough to feel intentional. Like someone long ago wanted to leave a mark quietly.

The pillars weren't uniform. They were mismatched.Each made from different stone, maybe from different regions, maybe even a different time. Some white, some with darker veins, some with warm tones. Some smooth, others slightly rugged. At first it looked random, but somehow it all worked. It matched. Like different lives or voices blending in a way that made sense only if you stood still and really looked.

It should've clashed. But it didn't. It was beautiful. Balanced in a way I couldn't explain. Like lives that weren't meant to meet but did—and made something sacred.

And then… the color.

The thing that stayed with me the most was the color.

The blue.

Not painted exactly—but present. In the light. In the stones. In the shadows, in the space between, in the feeling. Blue tones that filled the space quietly, like a presence that didn't need to speak to be known. Like a memory. Like silence with weight.

It wasn't just beautiful. It was calming. Familiar.

I didn't try to control the vision. I just stood in it, watching.

Something about it felt important. Not urgent. Just waiting.

Not like a movie. More like a place I stepped into.