On the evenings when the electricity failed in Chiknagul, the entire village would glow like a field of stars. Hundreds of fireflies drifted out from the banana trees and bamboo thickets, their lights blinking softly, lazily, as though practising a language older than speech.
On such nights, Sara—eight years old, curious, and always hungry—would sit on the veranda while her grandmother cooked by the dim flame of a kerosene lamp. The air was thick with the smell of frying fish, wet rice fields, and distant thunder.
But tonight was different.
Tonight, the fireflies seemed restless.
And Nani’s cooking felt unusually quiet.
Sara heard her grandmother grinding spices in the clay mortar, but the rhythm was slower, heavier, as if the pestle itself had grown tired.
“Why aren’t you humming?” Sara asked.
Nani always hummed when she cooked. Old songs from Sylhet, forgotten lullabies, melodies of people she didn’t speak of anymore.
Nani paused, wiped sweat from her forehead, and forced a smile.
“No reason,” she said. “My throat is dry.”
Sara didn’t believe her.
She scooted closer and sniffed the pan. “Which fish is this?”
“Hona,” Nani replied. “Your favourite.”
“It smells different.”
Nani’s hand froze mid-stir. “Different how?”
Sara shrugged. “Sad, maybe.”
“Food cannot be sad,” Nani said sharply.
But the words hung strangely in the warm evening air.
Sara didn’t argue, though she knew she was right.
Food could be sad.
Fish could be sad.
People could be sad.
And sometimes, the sadness mixed into everything without permission.
Tonight smelled of unspoken things.
The Woman Who Bought Too Many Fish
Earlier that afternoon, Sara had followed Nani to the Chiknagul Bazaar, skipping along the dusty path, her bare feet leaving tiny half-moon prints on the earth.
The bazaar was a festival of noise—vendors shouting prices, chickens flapping in bamboo cages, children darting between stalls. The fish market, in particular, roared with life. Silver hilsa, carp, tench, and tiny mola fish lay on beds of crushed ice, glinting like lost coins.
Nani bought more fish than usual—two kg of hilsa, three of bola, and a basket of small fish that Sara didn’t recognise.
“Are we feeding an army?” Sara asked, half-laughing.
Nani didn’t answer. She only pressed her lips together and kept buying.
Even the fishmonger, a large man with a crooked moustache, chuckled.
“Planning a wedding, apa?” he teased. “Or a feast for the jinn?”
Nani forced a small smile. “My grandson likes fish.”
Sara blinked.
What grandson? She was Nani’s only grandchild living in this village.
Nani’s Secret Room
At night, when the fish curry was done and the rice steamed gently in the clay pot, Nani set aside three plates instead of two.
One she placed on the dining mat.
One she handed to Sara.
And one she carried to the back of the house.
Sara followed quietly.
Nani walked to the small storage room—the one she rarely opened except to take out old blankets. She entered, placed the plate on the floor in the corner, and whispered something under her breath.
Sara froze.
The smell of incense drifted from inside.
A faint rustle echoed.
A shadow moved, though no one stood there.
A chill ran up Sara’s spine.
When Nani came out, she locked the door immediately and pressed her finger to her lips.
“Do not ask,” she said softly.
But children do not listen well.
Especially children like Sara.
The Firefly That Spoke
That night, the fireflies were everywhere—lighting up the courtyard, hovering near the jackfruit leaves, clustering around the bamboo fence.
Sara lay on her thin mattress, unable to sleep. Nani snored gently in the next room.
A soft buzzing brushed her cheek.
A single firefly floated near her face, blinking slowly.
Sara whispered, “Do you know what’s in the storage room?”
The firefly blinked twice.
Sara sat up.
“Blink once for yes, twice for no. Is there… someone inside the room?”
The firefly blinked once.
Sara swallowed.
“Is it a person?”
Blink.
“Is it a man?”
Blink.
“Is it a boy?”
Blink.
Sara’s heart pounded.
“Is he… my cousin?”
Blink.
The air in the room felt suddenly thin.
“Is he alive?” she whispered.
The firefly flickered uncertainly, hovering crookedly.
Blink.
Pause.
Blink.
Sara wasn’t sure what that meant.
She tried one more question.
“Is he… dangerous?”
The firefly drifted back, blinked twice, then hovered near the window and flew out into the night.
Sara lay awake for a long time.
Three plates.
Whispering.
Locked doors.
A nephew no one mentioned.
Nani humming sad songs.
Something lived in the storage room.
And it ate fish.
The Story Nani Wanted to Forget
The next morning, Sara confronted her grandmother.
“I saw you,” she said. “Feeding someone in the storage room.”
Nani stiffened. The ladle in her hand shook.
“You should not spy,” she said.
“You said you had only one grandchild,” Sara replied quietly.
Nani closed her eyes.
“You don’t remember him,” she said after a long pause. “You were too young. And I… I tried to lock it all away.”
“Who is he?” Sara asked.
Nani sat down slowly on the floor, the weight of years pressing on her shoulders.
“My first grandson,” she said. “Your cousin. His name was Faisal.”
Sara blinked. “Was?”
Nani nodded faintly.
“Seventeen years ago, he drowned in the river.”
Sara felt her throat tighten. “Then who—”
“Let me finish,” Nani whispered.
Her voice trembled as she spoke.
“Faisal was special. Quiet, but always listening. He loved the night. He would sit under this very mango tree and watch the fireflies. He said they were lost souls searching for home.”
One night, Faisal went with his father to bring fish from the market. It was monsoon season. The river was swollen, eager, unpredictable.
Their boat overturned.
Faisal’s father survived.
Faisal did not.
At least, that was what everyone believed.
Nani’s voice dropped to a whisper.
“Three nights later, someone knocked on my window.”
Sara felt goosebumps rise on her arms.
Nani’s eyes glistened, remembering.
“I opened the window… and there he was.”
“The river brought him back to me,” she whispered. “Cold, shaking, eyes too dark. I wrapped him in blankets. Fed him warm rice. But he would not speak. He only stared.”
Sara’s body froze.
“Was he… alive?”
“I don’t know,” Nani said. “All I know is he was not like before. He did not talk. He did not walk in daylight. He would not let me call a doctor. He hid from everyone. When I tried to tell the family, they refused to believe me. They said grief made me imagine him.”
“So you hid him,” Sara said softly.
“Yes,” Nani whispered. “I hid him. I fed him. I kept him safe. He grew thinner. I grew older. And the world forgot him. Only the fireflies stayed with him.”
Sara shivered.
“Is he in the storage room now?”
Nani looked away.
“He is… not gone,” she said. “Not fully. Not alive, not dead. He wakes when he smells fish. He sleeps most of the time, curled like a shadow. He does not harm anyone. He is simply… stuck between worlds.”
Sara’s voice shook. “Can I see him?”
Nani’s lips trembled. “No. He must not see you. He only knows me. Anyone else frightens him.”
“But he’s my cousin—”
“And he is not the boy he once was,” Nani said firmly. “Some souls come back changed.”
Sara swallowed her fear.
“But Nani… why did you never ask for help?”
Nani looked at her with tired eyes.
“Because some griefs cannot be explained without people calling you mad.”
The Night the Fireflies Gathered
That night, the fireflies arrived in such numbers that the courtyard glowed like a floating lantern. Even the frogs stopped croaking, as if mesmerized.
Nani went to the storage room with her usual plate of fish.
Sara followed quietly from a distance, clutching a small kerosene lamp.
Suddenly, Nani gasped.
The door to the storage room was open.
The plate in Nani’s hand clattered to the ground.
“Faisal?” she whispered. “Faisal, where are you?”
Sara froze. The night air felt electric.
A thin shadow moved near the banana trees.
Nani rushed toward it, her hands trembling.
“Faisal,” she whispered, “come inside. You’ll frighten Sara.”
Sara stepped closer, holding the lamp high.
A shape emerged—not quite a boy, not quite a ghost. Thin arms, long hair dripping as if with river water, eyes dark but not empty.
His bare feet barely made a sound.
He drifted toward Nani like a gentle breeze.
Nani reached out and held his face in her palms.
“Come home, child,” she murmured.
For the first time, Sara saw his face clearly.
He was young—fifteen? sixteen?—but pale, hollow, almost translucent. His lips parted slightly, but no sound came out.
He smelled of river mud and damp earth.
And fishbones.
So many fishbones.
Sara felt a mix of fear and sadness swirl inside her.
“He’s… real,” she whispered. “He’s really here.”
Faisal turned toward her.
Not aggressively.
Just slowly—as if remembering something.
Or someone.
He took one step toward her.
Then another.
Nani tensed.
“Stop,” she whispered. “She is not ready.”
But Faisal didn’t seem dangerous.
He simply lifted one hand toward the sky.
Something glowing landed on it.
A firefly.
Then another.
And another.
Soon, dozens of fireflies gathered around him, their lights blinking softly, like gentle applause.
Sara felt tears prick her eyes.
Not from fear.
From recognition.
“He’s beautiful,” she whispered.
Nani sagged with relief.
Faisal lowered his hand.
He looked at Sara for one long moment—eyes dark, unreadable, ancient.
Then he turned and drifted back toward the storage room.
The fireflies followed him like quiet guardians.
Nani locked the door behind him.
The Choice
Inside the house, Nani trembled as she sat on the edge of her bed.
Sara placed a blanket around her shoulders.
“Nani,” she whispered, “we need to do something.”
“No,” Nani said weakly. “He is safe as he is.”
“He’s not safe,” Sara said. “He’s trapped.”
Nani began to cry—the soft, painful tears of someone who had carried a secret too heavy for too long.
“What if letting him go means losing him forever?” she whispered.
Sara hugged her tightly.
“He’s already lost,” she said gently. “What he needs is peace.”
Nani closed her eyes.
“I don’t know how.”
Sara thought of the fireflies.
Of the river.
Of the fish.
Of the sadness that filled the air.
“There must be a way,” she said. “A way to free him.”
The River Calls
The next night, the fireflies gathered again—more than before, swirling in circles near the storage room door.
Sara felt it before she heard it.
A pull.
A whisper.
A calling.
The river.
Nani sensed it too.
“No,” she whispered. “Not tonight.”
But Sara understood.
“He needs to go home,” she whispered.
Together, they opened the storage room door.
Faisal stepped out—slow, hesitant, eyes blinking against the moonlight.
He looked at Nani.
She nodded through tears. “Go, child. Go where you belong.”
Sara took her hand.
And the three of them—Nani, Sara, and the boy who had drowned—walked toward the river.
Fireflies lit the path.
The water shimmered.
Faisal stepped into the river without fear.
He turned once, looked at them both, and—just for a moment—Sara thought she saw him smile.
Then he dissolved into the water like mist melting into dawn.
The fireflies scattered, their lights dimming.
Nani collapsed into Sara’s arms, sobbing.
“It’s done,” Sara whispered. “He’s free.”
After the Storm
The next morning, the house felt lighter.
Nani cooked without sadness.
The air smelled of turmeric, not grief.
There were no plates set aside anymore.
Sara sat on the veranda.
A single firefly drifted toward her in broad daylight—a strange thing. Impossible, people would say.
It blinked once.
Then again.
Then flew away.
She smiled.
“Goodbye, Faisal,” she whispered.
And the mango tree rustled as though answering.
Disclaimer
This story, published on mujiburrahman.com is a purely fictional work. All characters, places, communities, and events described are products of imagination or used in a fictional context. Any resemblance to actual individuals or real-world events is entirely coincidental. The purpose of this content is storytelling and entertainment only and should not be taken as factual or representative of any real person or community.
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