Until that night. Without warning

A rose landed on the balcony floor.

Not dropped.

Thrown. The sound was soft, but sharp enough to break the silence. Amina froze.

Her eyes darted around the darkness beyond the balcony railing. There were no footsteps. No voices. No movement. The street below lay empty, swallowed in shadows.

Slowly, hesitantly, she bent down and picked up the rose. For a brief moment, she stared at it. Then something about it something she could not explain made her expression tighten. Her fingers trembled.She threw it away. The next morning, Amina was not the same.At first, it was subtle. She grew quiet not the gentle quiet of shyness, but something deeper. She stopped reacting naturally to conversations. Her eyes lingered too long on nothing. She flinched at the smallest sounds, her body tensing as if expecting something to strike.

Then came the nights. Every midnight, she would walk to the balcony again.

Her hair is open. Her gaze fixed the empty darkness beyond. When the azan echoed through the city, filling every corner of Dhaka, she did not react. Not even slightly. It was impossible not to hear it. Yet she stood there as if it did not exist.Sometimes, though, her body would suddenly tense during the call to prayer. Her hands would clutch at her arms, her nails digging into her skin. “It hurts…” she whispered once, her voice strained. “Like needles… like thorns under my skin…”

Then the nights grew worse. Her breathing changed. It became unnaturally loud. Her chest rose and fell heavily, her torso expanding as if something inside her was struggling to breathe. Her voice followed. What had once been soft became something deeper. Harsh. Masculine. It did not sound like Amina. Her eyes would turn red.Her posture stiffened, her movements sharp, almost aggressive as if her body no longer belonged entirely to her. By the second night, the family knew. This was no ordinary illness.