Even after the phone screen went dark, Mehrin kept standing in the same place for a long time. Her fingers had gone stiff, as if she was still holding the phone to her ear. The silence inside the room, the fading evening light slipping in through the window, and the uneven rhythm of her breathing made the whole moment feel strangely cold.
"Because the game with your life is not over yet… rather, it has only just begun."
The woman's voice kept echoing in her ears.
Slowly, Mehrin placed the phone on the table. But even after moving her hand away, it felt as though the cold touch of it still remained on her palm. Who was that woman? How did she know about Mehrin's scholarship email? And why did she speak as if someone, somewhere, was pulling invisible strings tied to Mehrin's life?
The first face that came to her mind was the woman from Dhanmondi. Calm, composed, but with that unsettling shadow of knowing in her eyes. Was it her? Or someone else? If it was her, then how did she know so much? And if it was not, then who else knew about Mehrin's life, who else was watching, who else was calculating everything from behind a curtain?
She sank into the chair. Fear was still there inside her, but it was no longer the same helpless fear that had once paralysed her. This was different. This fear was sharp. Alert. It made her feel as though she had arrived at the edge of something much larger than herself, but the full picture was still hidden from her sight.
Her eyes fell on the open laptop. The scholarship email was still there on the screen. The university logo, the formal words, the interview date—everything looked real. Tangible. Like something she could finally touch after years of disappointment. And yet, even that reality now carried a shadow of suspicion.
Mehrin read the email again. Once. Twice. Three times. She checked the sender's address, the signature below, the interview link, the date and time. She wrote everything down carefully in her notebook. Still, the unease would not leave. The opportunity was real, but what if there truly was an invisible hand behind it?
Before evening deepened, she decided one thing clearly—she could not afford to stop out of fear. The only way to know the truth was to examine everything from every side.
First, she took out a copy of her own application. She checked when she had sent it, what she had written, which documents she had attached, whether she had used any reference. The more she looked, the clearer one thing became: she had applied on her own merit. There was nothing false in it. Her documents were good enough for shortlisting. But still the question remained—how had that unknown woman learnt of it before Mehrin herself even had the chance to process it?
Outside, the evening azaan floated softly through the air. Mehrin lifted her head and sat in silence for a few moments. Then she pulled her notebook closer and wrote on a fresh page:
Things I need to know:
1. Who is the woman who called me?
2. How did she know about my email?
3. Is Rashed involved in this?
4. Does this have any connection with the woman from Dhanmondi?
After writing the questions, she stared at them for a long moment.
Not long ago, she would never have been able to look at her life this way. Back then, she only felt, endured, and cried. Today, she was asking questions. Today, she was seeking answers. That was not a small change.
By nightfall, she had no appetite. Still, she forced herself to warm a little rice. Barely two spoonfuls went down her throat. When she looked around the room, it felt as if the room itself was watching her with new eyes. The helpless girl who had once lived here in silence was not here anymore. But the woman standing in her place was not fully strong yet either. Living in that in-between space was perhaps the hardest part of all.
She picked up her phone again. The unknown number was still glowing in the call history. After staring at it for a few seconds, she called back.
It rang once.
Then the call was cut.
She tried again.
This time, the phone was switched off.
A wave of irritation and curiosity rose together inside her. It felt as though someone had opened a door just enough for her to peek inside, only to slam it shut before she could see what was there.
Just then, another message from Rashed flashed across the screen.
"Meet me once. It is urgent."
Mehrin's eyes turned cold. She did not open the message. She only read the notification. A few moments later, another one came.
"It is not what you think."
A bitter smile touched her lips. When deception gets exposed, almost everyone says the same thing—it is not what you think. And yet, nobody ever tells the truth in time.
She put the phone on silent and left it on the bed. No replies today. Rashed was no longer the centre of her questions. He was only one part of the problem.
As the night deepened, sleep moved farther away from her. Every time she closed her eyes, different faces, fragments of words, and unfinished sentences crowded into her mind. Rashed's voice. The cold eyes of the woman from Dhanmondi. And that unknown woman's soft, unsettling congratulations.
At one point, she got up and stood by the window. Hardly any vehicles were passing outside. Under a distant lamp-post, a stray dog was curled up on the pavement. The city looked tired. But inside her, everything remained awake.
A thought slowly grew within her—if someone really wanted to play games with her life, then this time she would not remain a silent pawn on the board. Earlier, she could be pushed, hidden, erased, and made to wait in the dark. Not anymore.
The next morning began under a strange heaviness. Still, she made herself get ready. The interview was only four days away. Whatever else was happening, she would not let this chance slip away. She opened her laptop and searched for possible interview questions. She wrote down answers about herself, her academic goals, why she wanted the programme, and what future she imagined for herself. She even practised speaking them aloud.
"Tell us about yourself."
The first time, her voice shook.
The second time, a little less.
By the third, she saw herself clearly—a woman who had not been given an easy life, but whose dreams had still refused to die.
As the day progressed, she visited the university's official website and cross-checked every detail in the email. The names, dates, format—everything matched. The interview was genuine. At least that much was certain.
And yet, the unknown voice would not leave her mind.
A little after noon, there was a knock on the door. Not too loud, but steady.
Mehrin's heart gave a sudden jolt. Rashed? Or someone else?
She walked to the door slowly but did not open it at once. From inside, she asked, "Who is it?"
After a brief pause, a male voice replied, "Courier, apa."
Her brows knitted together. She had not ordered anything.
"What courier?" she asked carefully.
"It has come in your name. It says urgent."
Through the peephole, she saw a delivery boy standing outside. Ordinary face. Medium build. A large envelope in his hand.
She opened the door only slightly and took the envelope. The sender's space was blank. On the front, only her name—Mehrin Islam—was written neatly.
"Who sent this?" she asked.
The boy shook his head. "It was submitted at our office. No name was given."
After he left, Mehrin locked the door and stared at the envelope. That same cold sensation spread again through her chest.
A few seconds later, she opened it.
Inside was a white sheet of paper.
And an old photograph.
At first, she could not understand what she was looking at. Then her breath caught in her throat.
In the picture stood Rashed. He looked younger there, almost softer. Beside him stood a woman in elegant clothes, graceful and composed, with a faint smile on her lips. And between them stood a little girl, perhaps seven or eight years old.
Mehrin's hand began to tremble.
On the back of the photograph, written in black ink, were the words:
"Not every story has been told to you."
Her vision blurred, but she still unfolded the paper inside. There was only one line written on it:
"Know the truth before the interview. Otherwise, it will be too late."
In an instant, the room seemed to shrink around her. The walls felt closer. Rashed. That woman. That child.
Who were they?
A terrible possibility struck her like lightning, and yet she was afraid even to shape it into words. Was this part of Rashed's past? Or his present? And if it was his present, then what had Mehrin been all this time? A cover? A substitute? A need?
She slowly sat down on the bed. The photograph and the note trembled in her hands. This time, no tears came. The shock was too large even for tears.
Instead, something else was rising inside her.
Anger.
A cold, sharp anger.
She picked up her phone and went to Rashed's number. For a few seconds, she stared at his name. Then she did not call. No—not like this. Not this time. She would not go to him with tears, pleading for answers. This time, answers would have to be pulled out into the light.
Just then, the phone rang again.
The same unknown number.
This time, Mehrin answered without a second's delay. The same woman's voice came from the other side.
"You received the envelope?" she asked calmly.
Between clenched teeth, Mehrin said, "Who are you?"
A light laugh floated across the line. "Who I am is not important right now. What is important is this—do you finally believe that there is much more hidden than what you have been shown?"
Mehrin's chest rose and fell hard. "Who is the girl in the picture?"
There was silence for a few seconds.
Then the woman spoke again. "That is only the beginning, Mehrin. Prepare yourself to find out where exactly you stand in the life of the man you believed to be your only truth."
"Why are you doing this?" Mehrin's voice shook now, but not from weakness—from anger.
The answer came slowly, coolly.
"Because someone has to tell you the truth. And because… your interview is not only for the scholarship."
Mehrin went still. "What do you mean?"
For a moment, all she heard was the woman's breathing.
Then the voice lowered into a whisper.
"In four days, you will not only sit before a university panel, Mehrin… you will sit before people who already know your name."
The line went dead.
Mehrin stood frozen where she was.
The photograph slipped from her hand and fell to the floor.
Outside the window, the afternoon light was slowly dying.
And before her, a door to the truth was opening—a truth that perhaps carried not only Rashed's lies,
but something far more dangerous hidden inside her own life.