On a Moonlit Night.

The village was called Shitalpur — a peaceful little place by the river. After a day full of chores and life, the village would fall under a magical spell once night descended. But on full moon nights, that magic deepened, turning the entire landscape into a painting of dreams. It was on such a moonlit night that something mysterious happened — a tale still whispered by the village elders.

Rayhan was a young man in the village. He had just finished college and helped his father in the fields. He read books in his spare time because he was drawn to poetry and literature. Shakespeare, Keats, and Emily Dickinson — they had become companions through the pages he devoured.

One evening, Rayhan sat by the river, the full moon casting silver light all around. A cool breeze whispered through the trees. He scribbled verses in his notebook, lost in thought.

His ears were suddenly filled with a delicate, musical laugh. It appeared to be coming from across the river, but was it actually nearby? He stood up and looked around. No one.

He sat back down, thinking it must be his imagination. But then, there it was again — a woman’s laughter. This time, it is clearer. Real.

Rayhan slowly walked toward the riverbank. And then he saw her.

Sitting on the edge of the stone steps was a young woman — clad in a white dress, loose hair flowing, tiny anklets glittering in the moonlight. The moon's soft light made her face glisten. He hesitantly asked.

— "You’re sitting here alone… at this hour?"

She smiled and replied,

"I’m not the only one. I have the moon, the river… and now you."

Rayhan was captivated. When he asked her name, she said, “Meghla.” He’d never heard a name quite like that.

They talked — about poetry, nature, music. Time seemed to pause. The moon climbed higher. That night, something stirred in Rayhan’s heart — something tender and unfamiliar.

From then on, they met on every full moon night. Meghla would appear like a dream. They'd sit by the river, read poetry and sing softly into the night. But Meghla never came during the day. She avoided the village, never talked about her home or family.

One night, Rayhan asked gently.

— "Where do you live, Meghla? Can I visit you someday?"

She paused for a moment.

— "My home is the river and the night. I do not live in the light of day. One day, you’ll understand."

Rayhan felt a strange sadness in her words. He didn’t press further, though the mystery around her deepened.

Then one full moon night, Meghla didn’t come.

Rayhan waited… and waited. The following night, too, nothing. And the next. He grew restless, heartbroken. A strange emptiness filled him. He didn’t eat, barely spoke.

On the fourth night, he made a decision. He’d go to the other side of the river — to the old cemetery where no one dared go after dark. Carrying a lantern, he crossed the river alone.

The place was eeriely silent, cold. As he wandered through the old graves, his eyes fell on one — a weathered stone slab covered in moss.

It read:

“Meghla – Died December 16, 1971”

His knees gave out. He sat by the grave, his eyes welling with tears. Was it possible?

The wind stirred, and then — they laughed. That soft, familiar laugh.

He looked up. Meghla stood there.

Just like before — white dress, loose hair, glowing in the moonlight.

— “Are you afraid?” She asked softly.

— “You… you’re…” Rayhan stammered.

— “Yes. I’m no longer among the living,” she said. "I passed away in 1971." Rayhan stared at her in disbelief.

She continued,

— “I was in love with a freedom fighter. He died in the war. And I… I took my own life. No one remembered me. My story was buried — until you came along.”

Rayhan whispered through tears.

— “Is there a way I can help? Can I bring you tranquility?” Meghla smiled faintly.

— “Tell my story. Write it down. Let the world know. Speak of our love, our moments by the river. If my memory lives on in your words, I’ll finally be free.”

Rayhan nodded.

He returned to the village and poured his soul into a poem — "On a Moonlit Night with Meghla". He read it aloud during the village fair, with hundreds listening. His voice trembled, but his words lit a fire in every heart.

That night, as he stood again beside the river, the wind felt different. He knew she wouldn’t come again.

But in the rustle of leaves, in the shimmer of moonlight on the waves, he could still feel her.

Meghla was unharmed. And Rayhan — forever changed — walked onward, with a poem in his heart and the memory of a love that even death could not erase.

The End.