Hasnat Habib

The Letter of a Cold Evening

In a small, cluttered room tucked inside a crowded neighborhood of Dhaka, Rafi sat by the window, staring into the fading twilight. The evening felt different today. Just as the sun slowly sank below the horizon, a quiet darkness crept into the corners of his heart. Beside him lay an old envelope—worn at the edges—with handwritten words on it: “Rafi, My Final Words – Ayesha.”