The world in 2025 was a symphony of relentless noise. In a city like Chittagong, silence was a luxury no one could afford. The air was thick with the hum of electric engines and the constant, rhythmic ping of notifications. I, Kashem, was a prisoner of that rhythm. As a corporate analyst, my universe was bound by Excel sheets and cold, unfeeling computer screens.
I never believed in ghosts. In my world, everything had a logic. But when my firm assigned me to the Basirhat Special Project, I didn't know I was being handed a one-way ticket into a nightmare. The journey to Basirhat felt like traveling backward through a decaying timeline. By the time I reached the outskirts of the old railway station, the GPS on my phone had died—not just lost signal, but simply went black, as if the device was afraid to look at where I was.
The air at Basirhat was biting and carried a metallic tang of rusted iron—the smell of things dead for a long time. The grand Victorian arches of the 1884 station were now choked by pulsing green vines. "You shouldn't be here, Shaheb," a voice rasped. An old man with cataract-clouded eyes stood there. "The records here are not kept in books, young man. They are kept in the shadows. The past doesn't stay in the past. It breathes. It waits." He pointed toward a sunless forest. "If you seek the truth, find the hermit near the ancient cemetery. But remember—at Basirhat, the shadows never let go of what they catch."