Miraz stayed.
The two of them shared a simple breakfast—nothing fancy. Just tea and a few biscuits. A typical Bengali morning meal. But somehow, it felt meaningful. Not because of the food, but because of the unexpected bond forming between two strangers.
After finishing, Miraz stood up and stretched lightly.
"I should go. I'm already late for work," he said, brushing his hands off.
Shams gave a small nod. "Take care."
As Miraz headed toward the door, Shams murmured to himself with a slight smile, "What an interesting guy… I like him."
Out on the road, Miraz walked quickly. His pace was fast, but his mind wandered.
Shams... what an interesting guy. In just a few moments of talking, he changed something in me.
He shook his head, amused. But then his eyes narrowed.
Something was off.
It was almost 10 a.m., yet the streets were oddly empty.
Normally, at this hour, the road would be buzzing—schoolchildren rushing, rickshaw bells ringing, people heading to offices, shopkeepers shouting their morning deals.
But today… silence.
He could only spot two or three people scattered across the street.
A strange unease crept into his chest.
Shrugging it off, Miraz turned into a narrow alley, taking his usual shortcut. Even during the day, the alley was dim, thanks to the tall buildings on both sides blocking out the sun.
But this time, the silence was heavier.
Too quiet.
Every other time he passed through here, he'd hear something—voices, televisions, distant conversations from the surrounding apartments.
But now? Nothing.
No sound. No movement. Just the sound of his own footsteps echoing through the narrow path.
The feeling of unease grew stronger. He started walking faster.
Then he felt it.
That unmistakable sensation.
Like someone was behind him.
He spun around.
No one.
Just empty concrete and shadows.
He turned back, heart pounding a little faster now. He tried to dismiss it.
Just nerves. I'm overthinking.
But then—again—that feeling.
Like eyes were watching him.
He stopped, spun around once more.
This time, he saw something shift in the shadows. It was subtle, but it felt as if his breath was caught in his chest.
Half-closing his eyes, he squinted into the dimness, trying to see what it was.
Suddenly, a loud "meow" pierced the silence.
A cat sprang onto the wall of the alley, landing gracefully. It gave Miraz a daring stare before disappearing into the darkness.
Miraz exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "Phew... Just a cat. What a daring little creature."
He let out a quiet laugh to himself and continued walking, his steps quicker now.
Finally, he exited the alley and stepped back onto the open road. Sunlight greeted him, and he felt a wave of refreshment wash over him.
But now, the streets seemed as they should be. Rickshaws rattled by, shops were open, and people walked around, going about their daily lives.
"Yes," Miraz muttered under his breath, "that's the usual Dhaka."
He paused, then glanced back toward the alley, a thought crossing his mind. But what's the problem with the other side of the alley?
Miraz looked at the entrance of the alley again, curiosity tugging at him. But then, shaking his head, he turned back to the road.
Whatever, it's not my deal.
And with that, he kept walking, unaware of the figure watching from the shadows behind him.
In the dark alley..
Next to a rusted garbage bin, hidden in the darkness, a figure stood silently.
Tall. Thin. Wearing a long black coat and pants. His body seemed slightly… wrong. His limbs were too long, his movements too smooth, too quiet. His face was concealed beneath the shadow of a wide-brimmed hat.
The figure reached into his pocket and pulled out a strange, otherworldly device—small, glowing faintly.
He pressed it to his ear.
Then, in a language no human nearby could recognize, he whispered:
"[#@&#@&#*...]"
...
Miraz was already late. At first, he considered taking a rickshaw to get there faster, but then he thought better of it. He couldn't afford to waste money like that. Money had to be saved, not spent recklessly. He wasn't rich.
If I spend on things like that, it's a waste, he thought.
He started walking again, but it felt more like running now.
Although Miraz convinced himself he wasn't wasting money, he failed to realize one thing: the cigarettes he smoked were just as much a waste. They drained his money and, worse, affected his health. Yet, he couldn't bring himself to stop.
Miraz finally reached his workplace—a construction site. It was a massive project, a 15-floor building under construction, and the sound of laborers working was all around him. Some were mixing cement, others were pouring concrete. Everywhere he looked, there were workers hard at work.
The moment he stepped into the site, the manager saw him and scowled.
"You ba****! Grandson of a rajakar, why are you so late? We don't pay you for nothing!" the manager barked.
Miraz muttered under his breath. I'm handling the work of three people, and you pay me less than others... and still badmouth me?
The manager furrowed his brows, his expression contorting. "What did you say?" he asked suspiciously.
Miraz quickly straightened up and replied, "Nothing, nothing."
The manager waved him off. "Go start working!"
Miraz sighed, the weight of the day already pressing down on him. His task for the day was to lift concrete blocks to the upper floors. Though machines were supposed to do this work, the construction company had neglected to bring one. It was one of the hardest jobs on the site, and he knew it wouldn't be easy.
Hours passed.
Finally, it was lunchtime. The workers gathered together in the designated area, where the manager handed out food provided by the owner of the building.
Miraz walked in, looking completely different from when he had arrived. Dust and grime clung to his clothes, his face smeared with sweat. He wiped his hands on his shirt before sitting down for lunch.
While everyone around him seemed content, chatting and enjoying their meals, Miraz sat alone in a corner. The other workers had been given rice and chicken, but all Miraz received was a simple plate of plain white rice and Puree
Miraz took a deep breath before beginning his meal. He picked up his plate of white rice and purée. Although it was simple, he loved it.
He muttered softly, Bismillah, before starting to eat. As he took the first bite, his mind drifted back to his childhood. He remembered how his Uncle Kazim, or Uncle Gramps as he called him, used to feed him with his own hands.
Back then, even Uncle Gramps got the same humble meal—white rice and purée. And despite the simplicity, he always made sure Miraz ate, even when the child refused.
Miraz's mind wandered further back, recalling a conversation from his childhood.
"Uncle Gramps, I don't want to eat this. Everyone else got rice and fish. Why do we only get this? I don't want to eat it."
Uncle Gramps had smiled warmly, his voice calm but filled with wisdom. "Miraz, you have to be thankful to Almighty Allah. You are getting something to eat. There are many people in our nation who can't even eat three times a day. We must respect all work, and we must respect all food, no matter how simple it may seem."
Miraz closed his eyes for a moment, letting the memory settle in his mind.
He finished his meal, murmuring softly, "Alhamdulillah… Allah, thank you for this food. You are the owner of my rizq and my life."
Afterward, the workers were given another break for Salah. Miraz took the opportunity to head home. He changed into fresh clothes, performed his Salah, and then changed back into his work clothes—dusty and worn—before heading back to the construction site.
The hours passed slowly, and eventually, the workday came to an end. As usual, Miraz received less pay than the others. He knew it was unfair, but there was nothing he could do about it.
Unlike other days, Miraz didn't go out to play after work. Despite the conflict he had with the boys the night before, today felt different. Today was special.
He returned home, his mind occupied with something more important. He opened his TV, feeling a strange mix of anticipation and nervousness. Today was the day the second level of information would arrive[About Battle For Growth ], and this information would determine the fate of their nation.