The next morning, Foyez found himself standing outside his shelter when Captain Reyaz approached in full military uniform. His face was serious—formal, yet respectful. There was something final in his eyes.
Foyez stood up and saluted.
"At your service, sir."
Captain Reyaz nodded.
"Volunteer Faisal Ahmed... the war is over. There's much to rebuild now. You've done your part—more than enough. There's no need to keep you here any longer. On behalf of the group, I officially discharge you from duty."
He pulled out a folded paper.
"For your contribution, I present you this certificate of acknowledgement. And we'll try to get you a medal for what you've done."
"Thank you, sir," Foyez replied quietly. He took the certificate without emotion. It never really felt like the war was his. Not fully.
"So... what are you planning to do now?" the Captain asked.
"I'll try to make an honest living," Foyez said. "Start somewhere."
Reyaz looked at him with a hint of hope.
"You young boys are full of fire. Keep that fire burning. This nation is in your hands now."
He didn't say anything more. Just gave a sharp salute, turned, and walked away.
Foyez returned the salute in silence. A freedom fighter... and yet, just a teenage boy. He didn't feel proud—he felt hollow. He had achieved more in this short life than in his last, and yet, he still didn't know what for.
He didn't know why, but after being reborn, even his own memories didn't sound like his own anymore.
It felt pointless to stay in the military camp. He changed into a plain white shirt, formal pants, and kept the military badge loosely pinned on his chest. People noticed, but he ignored their stares.
What really caught his interest was the revolver. He didn't know much about guns, but something told him it mattered. Without a word, he tucked it into his bag beneath his clothes.
Just as he was leaving, a brown-skinned man with disheveled clothes and an unshaved face stepped into his path, paan juice coloring the corner of his mouth. He looked at Foyez with a crooked smile.
"I just heard about your discharge," the man said, chewing slowly. "And now you're already heading out? What's the rush? Take some time to heal."
"My wounds are already gone," Foyez replied quietly. "I think I should go. I can't just keep freeloading forever. Maybe I need to step back for a while." He hesitated, then asked, "It might be rude to say, but... who are you, sir?"
The man replied with an awkward expression. "Well, I heard about your memory loss. I'm just a rickshaw-wala from Dhaka—name's Shiraj. After the war started, I volunteered for the guerrilla army. The Pak army killed my brother and his wife. I had to do something."
His voice was steady, but the grief sat heavy in his face.
"Anyway," he continued, "I know I can't stop you. But take this—from the whole unit." He handed Foyez the revolver.
"You gave us a good answer out there. A lot of people wouldn't have done what you did. I know it's illegal to hand out weapons to discharged fighters... but you left this behind on the battlefield. Take it as a memento of the war."
He looked at Foyez seriously.
"The war is over, peace has returned... but somehow we're still not right in the head. Maybe it's the silence that's too loud now. But young men like you... you're the ones who'll lead this nation toward a better future."
Shiraj stepped back, gave a respectful nod, and said one last thing before turning away.
"Joy Bangla."
Foyez stood in place, holding the revolver. The certificate was tucked under his arm, the words still unread.
The war was over. But for the people of Bengal, the struggle was far from finished.