A sudden, sharp pain shoots through their ears. The pressure. It’s too much. They tilt their head, trying to relieve it, but it only worsens, a burning sensation that spirals into a high-pitched whine. They fumble, trying to grasp the porcelain-like cylinder in the cyst, but their fingers slip, vision narrowing as the mask restricts their movements. The room seems to twist, the edges of reality fraying.
Just as the pain reaches an unbearable crescendo, the right eardrum bursts. The sound is like glass shattering inside their skull. There’s a squeal, piercing and unnatural, and then—silence. The world tilts sideways as they lose equilibrium, their body lurching into a slow, uncontrolled tumble.
And then the fragrance seller from Bhopal catches them.
Their hand is warm, steady, a surprising anchor in the chaos. Through the haze, they see those calm, discerning eyes staring into their own, questioning. The seller’s grip tightens, pulling them closer, but they can barely process what’s happening. Nausea swells, and they lift a trembling hand to their ear, pointing to the blood trickling down the side of their face.
The seller’s eyes widen slightly, but they say nothing. Instead, they tilt their head, gesturing upward with a single motion. A signal. It’s time to stop the elevation.
The room shudders to a halt, the silver sands beneath them still as stone. The pressure fades, replaced by an overwhelming, hollow ache. They descend back to the ground, the porcelain cylinder slipping from their grasp, clattering against the cold, metallic floor of the cyst.