"Aman… look at me."
Mosharrof's voice echoed through the chaos—calm, steady, even as gunfire crackled in the distance.
"Look at my eyes. Are you serious right now…?"
His words were laced with disbelief, heartbreak, and something deeper—like a wounded brother trying to pull his sibling back from the edge.
"You're like my little brother…"
Aman's hands were trembling. His finger still rested on the trigger, jaw clenched, eyes conflicted.
Then—
BANG! BANG!
Two shots rang out.
Mosharrof stumbled backward.
One bullet pierced his shoulder.
The other lodged just below his heart.
He didn't fall—not yet.
He stood there, staring at Aman, eyes full of hurt but no hatred.
"Why…?"
The word never left his lips. But his gaze said it all.
Then—
BANG! BANG! BANG!
BANG! BANG! BANG!
The Hanadar Bahini opened fire.
A storm of bullets—dozens, maybe hundreds—tore through Mosharrof's body.
Still, he stood.
Even as his blood soaked the earth—
Even as life tried to leave him—
He stood.
For his comrades.
For his country.
For the promise he made.
Shurjo and Jahangir were frozen in horror. Then survival kicked in—they ran.
They didn't know how they escaped.
They didn't understand why Aman had done it.
And they didn't know… if Mosharrof was still alive.
But in their hearts… they feared the answer.
Back to the Present
Shurjo sat in front of Selina, his voice heavy with pain.
"Bhabi… that was the last time we saw Senior Mosharrof alive."
Drip... Drop...
Tears rolled silently down Selina's cheeks.
"Bhabi… there's something else." Shurjo continued, pulling something from his satchel.
"After the war ended, when we went searching for his body… we found this."
He gently placed a small, pressed flower in her hand.
A flower worn, faded… but familiar.
Selina stared at it, her eyes widening.
She couldn't remember exactly when she gave it to him.
But she knew it was hers.
And she knew it had been his.
Her sorrow erupted.
She wept—loud and unrestrained—as the weight of grief finally broke through her silence.
Shurjo's voice trembled, "I'm sorry, Bhabi… we couldn't find his body. But… Jahangir Bhai told me to give you this."
He handed her a small, shining medal—
Mosharrof's Honor Medal.
Selina took it in her shaking hands, her crying slowly subsiding.
She placed a hand over her stomach, where new life was growing.
Her eyes, filled with sorrow and hope, looked up at Shurjo.
"Tell me… will my—
No, will Mosharrof's son…
Will he be able to live with pride?
Will we ever be able to eat to our heart's content?"
Shurjo nodded, his eyes gleaming.
"Yes, Bhabi.
We got freedom.
The freedom Senior Mosharrof fought for.
The freedom… he died for."
"Bhabi… I'll be going now," he said softly, yet firmly.
"I'll come again—when our little brother is born. I promise I'll be there to meet him."
Selina gave a faint nod, unable to speak. Her eyes shimmered with unspoken grief and hope.
Shurjo stepped out of the room.
Outside, Kazim stood waiting.
"Bhaiya… stay for a meal, at least. Eat some rice with us tonight," Kazim offered, voice filled with gentle insistence.
Shurjo shook his head firmly.
"No, little brother. I can't. There's still work to be done. The damage Hanadar Bahini left behind… we have to clean it up. We owe it to our brothers who didn't make it back."
Kazim didn't argue. He knew the kind of weight Shurjo carried now—the weight of unfinished duty, of fallen comrades, of a war that had ended in name but still lived in ruins and wounds.
And with that, Shurjo walked away, his silhouette disappearing into the smoky dusk of a new, free Bangladesh.
One Month Later
A new letter arrived at the house of the late Mosharrof Hossain.
Selina was still grieving, but the storm had softened. Her belly had grown—her delivery date was near. A quiet anticipation lingered in the air.
Kazim opened the letter carefully, as if afraid of what it might say.
This time, it wasn't bad news.
It was an official notice from the government:
An honor ceremony would be held next week to commemorate the brave freedom fighters who gave their lives for the country.
The Following Week
Selina couldn't attend. Her body was too heavy, her time was too near. Even standing for long had become difficult.
So Kazim went in her place—wearing a simple panjabi, ironed clean.
He held his head high, but his eyes were heavy.
He was not just a brother anymore.
He was carrying the pride and legacy of a hero.
There were no chairs.
Dozens of villagers sat on the muddy field—men with sunburnt skin, women with quiet eyes, barefoot children playing nearby. It was nothing unusual for them, but for Kazim, today the earth felt different. Heavy. As if it knew what was coming.
He sat down in the mud with the rest, wiping sweat from his brow. His shirt clung to his back. Not from heat—but from the weight of memory.
A frail, bearded man stepped onto the small bamboo stage, his voice carried by a single crackling speaker.
"Today," he began, "we honor both the martyrs who gave their lives… and the warriors who fought fiercely and survived. Each of them, a chapter in the story of Bangladesh's freedom."
The crowd fell into respectful silence.
One by one, names were called.
Some families stood in place to receive medals for the dead—holding them like sacred relics. Others walked up—limping heroes with sunken eyes who hadn't smiled in years.
And then—
"Aman."
Time froze.
Kazim's breath caught in his throat.
The crowd blurred. The voices faded.
Wind howled.
Trees rustled like they were whispering warnings.
A dog nearby began barking, then howling—long, loud, eerie.
It was as if the air itself protested.
Kazim's heart started pounding, louder with every step Aman took toward the stage.
He wore a spotless white panjabi. A new tupi sat on his head. His eyes looked calm—but Kazim could see it. The weightless eyes of a liar.
Kazim could feel it in his bones.
That man does not deserve to stand there.
He clenched his jaw, hands gripping the mud beneath him.
Aman took the medal from the announcer—his hands steady.
Then, he stepped up to the mic.
"I don't know what Senior Mosharrof truly desired in the end," Aman said slowly, gaze sweeping the crowd like he was choosing his words carefully.
"He was a hero once. But that day… he betrayed us. He turned his gun away from the enemy. Maybe… maybe fear got to him. Or confusion. I still don't know."
"But we still fought. We still bled. And we won. Bangladesh is free."