As the first light of dawn broke, Tasin sat up.
He looked at Ayan—eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling.
It was clear he hadn't slept all night.
Tasin remained silent for a while.
Then he spoke softly, "You didn't say anything after coming back last night. Are you okay?"
Ayan didn't answer.
Tasin didn't push further.
Shanto got up and put the kettle on. He took out the teacups.
He made the tea and placed it beside Ayan.
No words were exchanged.
Ayan sat up and took the cup in his hand.
He took a sip.
Tasin asked, "How was it at home?"
Ayan paused for a moment. Then he said, "Ma is crying a lot."
"Abbu?"
"He's silent. Not saying a word."
Tasin nodded.
Shanto said, "Why did you have to come back so soon? You could have stayed longer."
Ayan looked toward the window.
"There's work to do."
"What kind of work?"
"I'll tell you later."
Shanto didn't ask again.
Tasin poured a little more tea into his cup.
The three of them drank their tea in silence.
The morning light streamed in through the window.
Even without words, just being there by his side meant a lot to Ayan.
As soon as he entered the canteen in the morning, Raiyan saw him.
He stood up and came forward.
The distance from that night still lingered between them.
Ayan stopped for a moment.
Raiyan asked, "Back from home?"
"Yes."
"How are you?"
"No."
Raiyan faltered slightly.
Everyone usually says "I'm fine" or "I'm okay." But Ayan said "No."
This honesty shook Raiyan a little.
He sat in the chair next to him.
After a moment of silence, he said, "Sorry, brother. I didn't know how to say it."
"Say what?"
"Everything. I was angry because you pushed me. But after you left, I realized that even on the night of your sister's death, you ran to me for help."
Ayan said nothing.
Raiyan looked down at his wrist.
There was a mark.
"It's not going away," he said softly. "When I sleep at night, I see a dark place in my dreams."
"I know," Ayan said.
Hearing this, Raiyan looked at Ayan in surprise. There was something in Ayan's gaze that Raiyan couldn't read. Raiyan knew nothing of what had happened to Ayan over the past few days or why he had changed so much. All he saw was Ayan's pale face and a strange silence buried within him.
Raiyan thought perhaps the grief for his sister had turned him to stone. But looking at Ayan's expressionless face, it felt as though he was facing a mystery or a terrifying truth even greater than grief. Raiyan wanted to be free from his guilt, but Ayan's indifference made him even more restless.
After a while, Ayan suddenly looked at Raiyan. In that gaze, there was more determination than friendship.
"What do you want to do?"
"We have to go to the basement."
Raiyan paused for a moment.
Then he nodded.
"When?"
"Tonight."
"I'm coming."
Ayan said nothing.
In the afternoon, Jara sought Ayan out.
Ayan was sitting on a bench in front of the library.
Jara came and stood before him.
"I heard about your sister. I'm sorry, Ayan."
Ayan nodded.
"Did you talk to your mother?"
"Yes. I went home."
Jara was a bit surprised. "You went? Were you able to get out through the gate?"
Ayan paused.
"No. I couldn't get out."
"Then?"
"Then... I got out."
Jara frowned. "How is that possible?"
Ayan looked at the window.
"I don't know. Maybe that night, the book let me go. Because it had taken Anila—maybe it gave me a little time in exchange."
Jara said nothing.
There was no scientific basis for this explanation.
But this time, she didn't say that.
"Do you believe it now?" Ayan asked.
"The mark on Raiyan's hand. You knowing things beforehand. Arif being erased. Anila's death." Jara paused for a moment. "I won't call it magic. But this is beyond my understanding."
"Then?"
"Then I am with you."
At night, Ayan messaged everyone.
"Going to the basement tonight. Coming?"
Raiyan: "Coming."
Jara: "Coming."
But he was already standing at the library door that night.
No one had called him. He just knew.
The four of them descended into the basement.
In the light of Jara's flashlight, some names on the wall became clearly visible.
Raiyan was seeing them for the first time.
"Are these people's names?"
"Yes. My grandmother said that in the past, whenever someone died, their pictures were put up here, each with the date of death," Jara said.
Raiyan touched a name.
He said softly, "My family members' names aren't here, are they?"
No one answered. No one knew.
Ayan went near his grandfather's name.
"Abdus Salam Rahman. 1972."
He touched it with his fingers.
The stone was cold. As if the name itself had its own temperature.
"This is my grandfather's name."
The two others came closer. No one spoke.
They stood staring at that one name.
Some moments don't require words.
Ayan went deeper.
At the very end was a mud wall—black and dense.
He placed his hand on it. Instantly, it burned.
He pulled his hand away. He shone the light.
There was a curved mark on his palm.
Blood was trickling onto the ground.
The earth was soaking it up. Rapidly. As if it were thirsty.
"Ayan!" Jara came over. She grabbed his hand.
She compared it with the mark on Raiyan's wrist.
The same pattern.
This time, Jara offered no explanation.
Just then, the mud wall began to shift.
Slowly, the earth moved away. An iron door emerged.
Old. Rusted.
As if in exchange for blood, the door had revealed itself.
A light was coming from under the door. Yellowish. Warm.
And a whisper.
"Bhaiya?"
Anila's voice.
Ayan's entire body froze.
Raiyan grabbed his shoulder.
Jara stepped in front of him.
Jara gripped his hand tightly.
"That's not Anila," Jara said firmly.
Ayan knew.
But the voice was so identical.
His feet wanted to move forward.
Raiyan pulled him back. "Let's go. Not now."
Raiyan had been angry yesterday.
Today, he was holding him back.
Some friendships are deeper than anger.
Ayan turned. He walked toward the stairs.
Behind them, there was the sound of knocking on the door. From the inside.
The three of them came up. No one looked back.
Leaving the library, Ayan leaned against the wall.
Jara pressed a handkerchief to his hand.
Raiyan sat on the floor.
Ayan stood by the window, looking outside.
No one was speaking.
But the three of them were in the same place.
That was all that mattered now.
Ayan looked toward the ceiling.
Why was his grandfather's name on that wall?
Was this curse already linked to his family?
And if so—
Was Anila's death because of him?
Or was it written long ago?
There was only one place to find the answer to this question.
Beyond that door.
But Jara said—not now.
Then, how should he prepare?
That was now the only question.