Before he could blink, Musa realized he was no longer in the palace.
Darkness surrounded him. Only the sound of water. Cold wind. And a strangely familiar smell—stale water, fish, and blood.
Musa understood—this was not imagination. This was memory. The memory of that night. The night everything began.
Beneath the bridge. The deep river.
He saw himself floating in the water. Eyes open. Not dead. Injured, but alive. His body shivered from pain. Blood poured from the wound on his back. The cold water washed it away.
All around, only darkness. Above, the bridge lights flickered in the distance. From there, the echo of President Crane's laughter still reached him.
Musa drifted along the water, looking around.
In the distance, he saw two bodies, still, floating.
Mahim and Rokeya Begum.
Musa began swimming. Ignoring the pain. Reaching them, he saw—they were dead. Gunshots had pierced their chests. Eyes wide open. Gone.
Tears filled Musa's eyes. But there was no time to mourn.
He scanned the river, shouting, "Zakia! Zakia!"
No response.
Then, suddenly, he saw a small body floating, carried away by the current. Zakia.
Musa swam with all his strength against the current, ignoring the pain. He hit rocks, blood spilling, but kept going.
Finally, he reached her. The little girl was unconscious. Eyes closed. Pale face. But breathing. Alive.
Musa held her tightly to his chest. Both of them floated. Around them, only water. The current strong. Where it was taking them, no one knew.
Musa whispered, "I will never let you go, Zakia. I will save you."
The current carried them along for what felt like hours. Musa didn't know how long. Sometimes he drifted into unconsciousness, sometimes came back. But he kept his hands firmly around Zakia, protecting her from rocks, from drowning.
Finally, the current slowed. The water calmed. Musa saw—they had reached a vast river. A river larger than any he had ever seen. The opposite banks far away. Water deep blue, tranquil.
Where were they? Musa did not know.
Suddenly, in the distance, he saw a small boat. A fisherman's boat. Someone casting a net.
Musa shouted, "Help! Help!"
The man looked around, then turned his boat toward them. As he approached, Musa realized—he was young, 25–27 years old, strong build, dressed for fishing.
The man lifted Musa and Zakia into the boat. Zakia still unconscious. Musa nearly lifeless.
The man asked, "Who are you? Where did you come from?"
Musa whispered, "Save… her…"
Then he lost consciousness.
When Musa opened his eyes, he found himself lying in a small room. Around him, fishing nets, old furniture. A bed, two chairs. Through the window, the river could be seen.
Nearby, Zakia lay on a small bed. Still unconscious. But alive. Her chest rising and falling.
The young man entered with a bowl of warm soup.
Musa tried to sit, but pain made his body tremble.
The man said, "Stay lying down. You've been unconscious for a long time. You're badly injured—stab wounds on your back, beaten by rocks. I don't know how you survived."
Musa said, "That girl… Zakia…"
The man replied, "She's alive. But her mind hasn't returned yet. She took in too much water. But I brought a doctor. She will be fine."
Musa exhaled in relief.
The man said, "My name is Saeed. I fish in this river. You are at my home, on the banks of the Ubhiya River. It's a large river, stretching along the border of two countries. Where did you come from?"
Musa stayed silent for a moment. Then he said, "We fell from a bridge. Her parents were killed. She's the only one who survived."
Saeed's eyes softened. He said, "I understand. Rest. You are safe here. No one will find you."
Musa looked out the window. The Ubhiya River calm. The sunset reflected golden across the water.
He whispered, "I will return. I will answer to everyone. But first, Zakia must live. First, she must become human."
Saeed did not understand. He simply stood silently.
Night was falling. On the banks of the Ubhiya River, a new chapter was beginning.
Musa was alive. Zakia was alive.
And that river—Ubhiya—was where the seeds of history were sown.