After hanging up the phone, Ayan didn't lower his hand.
The screen went dark. Yet he kept staring, as if something had gone wrong and if he looked just a little longer, the screen would flicker back to life, his father's voice would drift through again, and this time, he would say something else.
He would say—"It was a mistake. Anila is fine."
The screen remained dark.
Beside him, Tasin was asleep, face buried in his pillow. Shanto lay on his side, peaceful. The sound of their breathing merged to create a rhythm in the room—slow, deep, secure. In this room, 3:00 AM held no significance. In this room, no one had died.
For Ayan alone, everything had stopped.
Anila was sixteen.
She used to sing—the tune was never quite right, but her voice was always loud. Whenever Ayan went home, he could hear her voice while he was still climbing the stairs. It was annoying. But within that annoyance, there was a sense of security—I am home; everything is alright.
The last time he went home was two months ago.
He stood up. His hands were shaking, but his face was set like stone. He pulled an old bag from the wardrobe. There was no organized packing; he just stuffed a few clothes inside. Ayan knew he had to go home. This journey was not one of joy; it was the heaviest path on Earth.
As Ayan sat on the fog-drenched bus at 5:00 AM, his surroundings felt blurred. The cold wind from the window stung his cheeks, but he felt nothing.
Earlier, Tasin had woken up, rubbing his eyes, and asked, "Where are you going so early?"
Ayan had paused. His voice wouldn't come out. With great effort, he managed a single word: "Home."
"Why? So sudden? What happened?"
Ayan's eyelids didn't flicker. He just stared at the floor and said in a quiet voice, "My sister is dead."
Tasin was stunned. He found no words in any dictionary to offer comfort. Ayan didn't wait. He pulled the door shut and left. That sound—the soft click of the door closing—echoed in Ayan's ears like a cannon blast today.
Three hours on the bus.
Ayan stared out the window the entire way. How cruel the world outside was! The trees stood exactly as before, the cows in the fields grazed on grass, and crowds gathered at tea stalls in small markets. Anila was gone, yet the world didn't pause for even a second. This normalcy pierced Ayan's chest like a needle. He felt as though the sky should have collapsed; at the very least, the sun should have refused to rise today.
He froze upon reaching the gate of his house.
The courtyard was crowded. Neighbors, distant relatives. Some were wiping their eyes, while others whispered about mundane household matters. This "whispering" was more than Ayan could bear.
The sound of his mother's wailing drifted from inside the house. That cry didn't sound human; it sounded like the final, agonizing scream of a broken flute. The sound made Ayan's legs go numb, but he ran.
Anila was lying on the floor, covered in a pristine white cloth.
Her face was so peaceful! Exactly like sleep. Ayan knelt by her head. When she was a child and slept deeply, Ayan used to run his fingers through her hair. He reached out today—then stopped halfway.
He couldn't touch her. He felt that the moment he touched her, this crushing truth would become permanent. As long as he didn't touch her, perhaps it was still just a nightmare.
Just then, his mother came and hugged him. With the tremors of her body and the salty scent of her tears, the stone inside Ayan finally cracked. The boy who hadn't shed a single tear until now broke into a sob. It wasn't a silent cry—it was a deep howl that echoed off the walls of the room.
The funeral took place at noon.
Ayan stood in the front row. Beside him was his father. His father's face was hard as rock, as if all emotions had died inside. But Ayan noticed his father's hands were trembling violently. Ayan gripped his father's hand tightly. His father said nothing; he just clung to his son's hand as if, without it, he too would fall.
As the first clod of earth was thrown into the grave, one thought kept circling Ayan's head—"Everything has a price."
He asked himself—was this truly the price of Anila's life? Or was he thinking this just to punish himself? This not knowing, these unanswered questions—this was perhaps the most painful part of grief.
That night, his father came and sat beside him. Both stared into the darkness for a long time in silence.
Finally, his father said, "Stay for a few days. Look after your mother."
"Abbu, I have to go back."
His father looked at him in surprise. "Why? The college isn't going anywhere."
What could Ayan say? Could he say that an evil game was being played there? That if he wasn't there, perhaps another Anila would have to leave prematurely?
He lowered his head and said, "I have to go, Abbu. There is urgent work left to do."
"What work?"
"I can't say right now, Abbu."
His father sighed. An unknown terror flickered in his eyes. "Your sister is gone. Now if you also get into some danger—" His voice broke.
Ayan could make no promises. Because he knew the path he was stepping onto offered no guarantee of return.
The next morning, while packing his bag, Ayan went to the kitchen and saw his mother making bread. Her eyes were swollen, red as hibiscus flowers. She was moving her hands with a mechanical rhythm.
"Ammu."
His mother didn't turn. She only said, "Eat before you go."
Ayan went close and rested his head on her back—the familiar sanctuary of his childhood.
His mother stopped her hands. She whispered, "When will you come back?"
"I don't know, Ammu."
"Anila is gone. If you don't return either..."
"I will come, Ammu. I will come back."
Ayan didn't know if he was telling the truth. But he had to say goodbye, leaving his mother with a lie for comfort.
By the time he returned to college, evening had fallen.
Entering the room, he saw Tasin and Shanto sitting there. No one spoke. Ayan didn't want anyone to speak either. This silence was his greatest companion now.
As the night grew deep, he pulled out that notebook.
He looked at it.
It lay open on the table. That same single line:
"Everything has a price."
Ayan stared at the line for a long time.
Then a thought slowly formed in his head—a thought he didn't want to let in, but once it arrived, it couldn't be stopped.
Did he know beforehand?
At the moment of saving Raiyan—seeing that shadow, pushing him, hanging him from the pipe—had he sensed, even a little, that a price would have to be paid?
And even then, he hadn't backed away.
When this thought became fully clear, Ayan went to the bathroom. He locked the door. He turned on the tap—cold water, at maximum pressure. Then he stood leaning over the sink, head bowed.
The sound of the water drowned out his own noise.
At dawn, a message arrived on his phone.
Jara wrote: "Are you okay?"
Ayan stared at the screen. Then he placed the phone face down.
Outside the window, dawn was breaking. The sky was still gray, but there was a reddish glow in the east. A bird was chirping in the treetop—the same melody, over and over.
Anila loved birds.
Once as a child, she had brought home an injured myna from the roof. Their father had been angry—"You'll get sick, let it go." Anila had released it while crying. Later, Ayan asked, "Why are you crying? You're the one who let it go."
Anila said, "Because it doesn't know that I love it."
Ayan stepped away from the window.
He didn't go to college that day.
Because he couldn't stand up. The reason was that simple.
When Tasin asked, he said it was a headache. Tasin didn't ask further. There is an advantage to a simple lie—no one examines it closely.
Night fell.
After his roommates fell asleep, Ayan sat up. He pulled the notebook toward him.
This time, he opened it of his own accord.
Not in anger. But with a tired, cold resolve.
"Did you know?" he whispered. "About Anila. Did you know beforehand that she would be taken?"
The page was white.
Silence.
"Answer me."
Then, the temperature in the room began to drop.
It happened so fast that Ayan didn't realize when his breath began to turn into white mist. The pencil on the table rolled off—for no reason.
Writing appeared on the page of the notebook.
"You are asking the wrong question."
This wasn't the slow-forming script of before. This time, it was as if someone was writing directly—and with the writing came a voice, inside the room, coming from nowhere yet everywhere. Deep. Genderless. A voice that sounded like it had existed long before Ayan was born.
"The question is not whether I knew. The question is—did you want to know?"
Ayan swallowed hard.
"Who are you?"
"I am your next question."
"That is not an answer."
"An answer does not always look like an answer."
Ayan grit his teeth.
"Did Anila die because I saved Raiyan?"
The voice was silent for a moment. That silence said more than any answer could.
"A sacrifice was taken. An exchange was made. Whether you made the decision or not is irrelevant to the Book."
"Then to whom is it relevant?"
A pause.
"To you. For the rest of your life."
Ayan didn't speak again.
There was nothing left to say.
He had actually known this answer. He just wanted someone to say it out loud.
"Before you go to the basement, know one thing," the voice said. "You are not alone."
Then the temperature returned to normal. The pencil lay on the floor. The notebook page was white.
As if nothing had happened.
Ayan stood up. He opened the door and stepped into the corridor.
He didn't know why he went out. Perhaps he couldn't stand the four walls anymore. Perhaps walking would clear his head.
There was no light at the end of the corridor.
But in that darkness stood a girl.
She was no more than fifteen. Wearing a uniform—at 2:00 AM. Her hair was messy. Her eyes were fixed directly on Ayan, as if she knew he would come here.
Ayan stopped.
"Who are you?"
The girl didn't speak.
She simply held out a folded piece of paper.
Ayan stepped forward. He took the paper.
He opened it.
It read—"Don't go tonight."
He looked up.
The girl was gone.
The corridor was empty. A tube light flickered in the distance.
Ayan stood there—paper in hand, his back against the cold wall.
He knew which place it was telling him not to go.
The basement.
But he also knew that even if he didn't go, it wouldn't change anything.
What was gone was gone.
Anila was gone.
Before this one truth, everything else—the basement, the book, the shadows, the invisible voice—all felt small.
He knelt down in the corridor.
This time, he cried.
No sound. No sobs. Just tears streaming from his eyes as he sat on the floor, clutching the folded paper to his chest.
For a long time.
Then he stood up.
He wiped his face.
He went back to his room.
In the morning, he would call his father.
He would say he was coming.
To see Anila's face one last time.
But before that—he opened the notebook once more.
And on the page, he wrote himself, with a pen, in ordinary blue ink—
"I will return. And then, everything will be accounted for."
He closed the notebook.
Put it in his bag.
Lied down.
Sleep did not come.
But he kept his eyes closed.
Anila's song was spinning in his head—the tune wasn't right, the voice was loud.