The Call of the Shadow

At night time, the alleys of the town fall eerie quiet. In Old Dhaka, below the flickering streetlights, an extraordinary darkness lingers—older than time, heavier than night time. In one such alley lives Arif, a quiet university scholar dwelling alone. His mother and father continue to be within the village. He moved into this vintage, creaky residence a month ago. It appeared reasonably priced and peaceful—at first. But each night, in view of that shifting in, something extraordinary has occurred. In the primary week, he began listening to things—tender footsteps at the roof, sluggish knocks on the door. At first, he thought it became simply the vintage residence settling, or possibly a stray animal. But then he observed it took place at the same time: 3:15 a.m. Thats while the shadow could appear. Every night time, without fail, it stood at the balcony—motionless, silent. Not pretty human, now no longer pretty smoke. A vague, ghostly parent with no features, but somehow... it stared at him. Arif by no means heard it speak, but he felt it whispering to his soul.

At first, he became terrified. He saved the lighting fixtures on, saved the curtains drawn. But worry changed into curiosity. Why became it here? What did it want?

Then it entered the room.

He could awaken shivering. The air could be ice cold. The shadow could be with the aid of using his bed, near sufficient to touch. It did nothing—simply stood there, as though looking ahead to him to talk first.

One night, he sooner or later did. “What do you want?” He whispered into the dark. The shadow quivered, as though seeking to answer, however vanished.

The subsequent day, Arif visited a vintage religious healer, a smart guy acknowledged within the community for his dealings with the unseen. The vintage guy came, stayed quiet, then sooner or later said,

— “A woman died here. Long ago. She became betrayed… her coronary heart broken. Her spirit remains.”

Arif felt his chest tighten. The shadow wasn't seeking to damage him. It became grieving. Seeking help.

That night, he accompanied the healers advice. He lit incense on the rooftop, sat cross-legged, and closed his eyes. The night time became still—unnaturally still. Then, the temperature dropped. When he opened his eyes, she became there.

The shadow became no longer formless. It became a woman—young, beautiful, but with ache in her eyes. Her face became pale, nearly translucent, and her voice became slightly a whisper.

“He left me. Lied to me. No one knew the truth.”

“Who became he?” Arif requested gently.

But she was already gone. Over the following couple of days, Arif has become obsessed. He searched archives, browsed vintage newspapers, and puzzled locals. Eventually, she exposed the story—she was a scholar like him. She fell in love. The guy promised marriage, then vanished. Humiliated and heartbroken, she took her life.

And the man?

He has become alive. With a brand new name. A new life. Pretending none of it ever happened.

Arif became furious—now not only for her, but for all of the forgotten truths buried with the aid of using time. He determined the persons address. He didn't confront him. Instead, one evening, he walked into the workplace building and left a letter on the persons desk. Inside: a dwindled image of her, a newspaper article approximately her death, and a be aware in calm, clean handwriting:

“You erased her. But she remembers. The reality waits for no one. She has returned—now no longer to curse you, best to be seen.”

That night, the person suffered a breakdown. Witnesses stated he screamed that “she” become withinside the room. That her eyes had been staring directly at him. He collapsed, crying, begging for forgiveness.

And from that night time on—the shadow in no way got here back.

The balcony stood empty. The knocks stopped. The residence felt lighter, as though a burden was lifted. But one morning, Arif observed something odd. On the foggy glass of his window, a smiley face became drawn—simple, childlike. Just one swipe of a finger.

Arif smiled too. She has become free. The tale was told. Justice, in its quiet way, was served. Still, a few nights whilst the air turns bloodless and the wind actions surprisingly via the trees, Arif pauses. He listens. And sometimes, simply sometimes, he hears it.

A faint sound like a gentle breeze—the faint whisper from past the curtain of this world:

“Thank you.”

And then, suddenly, the darkness is gone. The metropolis maintains its infinite rhythm. But Arif is aware of now—he isn't always alone. The reality has become in no way forgotten. It has become waiting. Waiting for the proper second to be set free.