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Rohan watched them disappear into the terminal.

On the other end, silence. Then a sob. Then the sound of his father fumbling for the phone in the background. probashirdiganta

That night, Rohan did something he hadn’t done in years. He drove to the airport — not to board a plane, but to sit in the observation lot, watching planes take off toward the east. Each ascending light was a prayer, a letter, a small death of distance. Rohan watched them disappear into the terminal

Rohan had been away from Dhaka for eleven years. Eleven monsoons he had missed, eleven rounds of Pujo celebrated through grainy video calls, eleven times his mother had said, “When are you coming home?” and he had replied, “Soon.” Then the sound of his father fumbling for

Now, standing on the balcony of his Toronto apartment, he realized soon had become a ghost. It haunted him more than homesickness ever could.

His phone buzzed. A voice note from his mother.