In Miraz's house...
The rain roared outside.
Wind howled through the broken window, cold air sneaking into the dimly lit room.
Miraz, sitting on the edge of his small bed, heard the ringtone echo through the house.
His button phone—old, scratched, yet loyal—was ringing.
Without much thought, he picked it up.
> "Hello?"
He slowly got up, walking toward the window to shut it against the rain.
But just then—
a voice spoke from the other end of the line.
Calm. Collected. Cold.
> "Hello, Mr… are you Miraz?"
Miraz's steps froze.
A strange chill passed through his spine.
The voice spoke again.
> "Hello? Mr. Miraz, can you hear me?"
> "Y-Yeah," Miraz replied, puzzled. "Who are you? What's going on?"
There was a pause. Then came a question that made his chest tighten.
> "Is your grandfather's name… Kazim?"
Miraz blinked.
> "Yes. He's my uncle-grandpa. Why? Is everything okay?"
A deeper silence followed. Then the voice softened—almost too calm.
> "Mr. Miraz… if you're standing… I suggest you sit down."
Miraz's heart skipped a beat.
> "What? Why?"
Still, he obeyed. He pulled the dusty chair near the wall and sat down, unease crawling up his chest.
Then the voice delivered the blow—
gentle, but shattering.
> "This is Dr. Salman from J.B. Hospital."
> "I'm so sorry to inform you… but your grandfather, Kazim… he's gone."
> "He vanished from the hospital."
> "No CCTV saw him leave. No nurse, no doctor, no guard noticed anything."
> "One moment he was there… and the next… he simply disappeared."
The world around Miraz blurred.
The phone slipped from his hand.
Clack.
It hit the ground.
A cold gust of wind burst through the window—
as if the world itself had paused for a moment of silence.
Miraz didn't move.
He didn't blink.
He just sat there, staring at the rain pouring down outside.
A strange, empty feeling grew inside him.
Kazim wasn't just a guardian.
He was his only real family.
His only shelter in this storming world.
And now... he was gone.
Disappeared.
Just like that.
…on the TV broadcast…
The screen flickered softly in the tea stall.
The Prime Minister—a weary man in his early fifties, clad in a dark suit, his tie slightly loosened—stood at the podium. His eyes looked sunken, the weight of the nation clearly pressing on his shoulders.
> "Hello, people of my beloved nation…"
His voice cracked slightly, as if he had aged a decade overnight.
> "Today, a tragedy unfolded. You all know by now… how many lives were lost."
Inside the stall, the customers sat frozen in silence. No clinking of tea cups. No idle gossip. Only the faint drumming of rain on the tin roof.
Shams, seated near the entrance, quietly lifted his cup. Steam spiraled from the surface as he took a slow sip. His eyes stayed fixed on the screen.
> "The chaos… the panic…" the Prime Minister continued. "And the news about this… Battle for Growth. It shook our nation. It shook the world."
> "The rewards are tempting—beyond imagination. To become the top nation, to leap over generations of struggle… it sounds unreal. A dream."
> "But after today… after what we witnessed… we know one thing."
He paused.
> "This is not a dream."
> "This is not a joke."
Outside, the rain began to fall harder—heavy, rhythmic drops pounding the earth like drums of mourning. Thunder rolled somewhere far above.
The Prime Minister looked down for a moment, as if collecting strength. Then he continued.
> "Many of you are waiting… for an answer. Will we participate or not? What path will Bangladesh choose?"
Shams leaned back in his chair, still watching, his expression unreadable. The storm outside mirrored the tension in the air.
> "I called an emergency session with Parliament. We discussed for hours. We debated. We argued."
The Prime Minister looked up again, directly into the camera now—into the eyes of his people.
> "And we have come to a decision."
Lightning flashed across the sky, and a loud crack of thunder followed, shaking the windows of the tea stall.
Shams's tea cup stopped midway to his lips.
The screen glitched for a second.
The Prime Minister took a long breath, then said—
Shams sat in silence, staring at the darkened TV screen. The tea stall had gone quiet, the air heavy with tension and loss. Rain thrashed against the tin roof like war drums. Thunder cracked the sky open once more.
He finally spoke—his voice low, but clear.
> "So many died today… I know it's risky, too risky even. But there's no turning back now."
He took one last sip of his tea, then placed the cup down with quiet finality.
> "This was hope for our nation. A once-in-a-lifetime chance. And there's no guarantee we'll survive even if we don't participate."
His words weren't loud. But they carried weight.
Shams stood up.
He turned toward the exit.
He looked around the stall. Some eyes met his. Most didn't.
> "I used to think our government was just corrupt. But now… I see it's also cowardly."
He turned to leave the tea stall. Rain lashed outside like it was trying to wash the world away.
One of the older men at the stall—perhaps the owner—looked up, concerned.
> "Ei bhai, don't go out now! Thunderstorm's too strong!"
Shams paused at the doorway, offered the man a calm, reassuring smile.
> "You don't need to worry about me, chacha. We young ones… we don't fear storms."
And with that, he stepped into the downpour.
His silhouette slowly faded into the darkness, swallowed by the storm, but his thoughts burned bright:
> "If the government's afraid to take the leap—then I'll make my own path."
> "I'll change my fate… no—our fate."
Thunder cracked again.
Then came silence.