Fiction | The Daily Star
  • The Hour

    The Hour

    Rarely do I go out. Hours die into days and days drown into weeks to open the doors to months, before I open my ears to the chirping of birds or the creaking of crickets; before I open my eyes to the dawn or the dusk.

  • Ashes

    Only the room in which he lodged was heated. His window looked to the south, towards the rolling ground from beneath which the sun rose on rare fine summer mornings.

  • Never say “Goodbye”

    It was ten minutes past nine, however, the populace outside Shahjalal International Airport showed no signs of lateness of the night.

  • Fahmida and the white dupatta

    When Fahmida left her home that morning, she was not feeling that well. She was not only a little feverish, her migraine had also returned.

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