With closed eyes, I saw her in the veil of a dream and recognized her. My mind accepted it, and my heart, quickening its pace, testified that it was indeed Safina. She sat on the velvety grass in the park, intently watching a five-year-old child.

I had gone to sleep determined that tonight, I would see my first love. I didn't know why she came to mind so vividly, after all, I hadn't seen her since college. Twenty-five years had passed. I didn't even know whether she was alive somewhere in the world or if her bones had long turned to dust. My thoughts were so powerful that they transformed into a dream. The only difference was that she appeared before me as a sixty-year-old woman, elegant yet as beautiful as she had been in her youth. Silver streaks were prominent in her hair, but astonishingly, her face and hands bore no wrinkles. I sat on a nearby bench, observing myself. My heart urged me to speak to her. It felt as though this impulse wasn't the magic of the dream but something my conscious mind had conjured.

I solidified my imagination and rose from the bench. She was Pashtun. During my school and college years, I had mastered Pashto in its most refined accent to adapt to her community and surroundings. In fact, I was even more fluent in Pashto than Safina, having mastered three distinct dialects, thanks to my two closest friends, each of whom spoke with a different dialects. Their influence had helped me absorb their speech patterns.

"Safina! Did you get plastic surgery?" Without hesitation, I sat beside her and spoke.

"No, why?" came her reply.

"Oh dear lady, it really seems like you've had work done, just like Noor Jehan. She only got her face done, while you've kept your hands young too!" I said, smiling.

"Hey, wait... who are you? And who are you to ask me that?" It finally occurred to her.

A fair question, given that over forty years had passed in the dream.

"Amazing, Miss Safina. Your tone hasn't changed at all. Still sharp but with that sweet voice." Affection seeped back into my words.

"You don't know how to talk elders with respect?" She focused only on the informal pronoun.

*"Za marray, khanumay!* If I don't respect by words, should I call you Abida?" I invoked the name of the girl who used to top the class.

"*Khanumay*, who are you? Only two or three boys from school and college used that name. One passed away fifteen years ago. The other two.... which one are you?" Now she was paying attention.

"Whoever I am, why do you look sixty when we were in the same class? I'm only forty." Even in the dream, my body felt as real as it did in waking life.

She looked at herself, then at me. I had only guessed her age... her wrinkle-free face and hands betrayed no sign of being older than twenty-five. Only the silver in her hair and the faint creases at her ankles gave her away. She smiled faintly.

"We were classmates. So why haven't you changed? Tell me, who are you?" Her tone was questioning.

My heart longed to hold her hand the way I had outside her college, by an ice cream cart. And my mind firmly guided me to that.

I reached out and gently clasped two of her fingers with mine. She studied my fingers, noticing the mole between them. With her other hand, she traced it lightly, then cradled my hand in both of hers.

"You.... you're alive, Ijaz. What's the point now? All vanished" She met my eyes and let out a quiet sigh.

Before I could respond, my phone alarm pulled me back. I felt my senses returning. With closed eyes, I silenced the alarm. A few seconds later, as I rubbed my eyes, the fragrance of jasmine struck me. Safina's hands had been holding crushed jasmine flowers.

*****