PART 1 – THE CALL AT 2 AM
I hadn't spoken to my brother in twelve years. Twelve years is long enough to slowly turn someone who was once very close to you into a stranger. When we were little, my brother was the only one in our family who always stood by me. When I was bullied at school, he stepped in. When our father got angry, he stood protectively in front of me. He once told me: “No matter what happens, I will always protect you.” I believed those words more than anything else.
But one day, everything changed. After a violent argument with our father, he left the house. No one knew where he went. No one knew what exactly had happened between them. My mother only said he needed time to think. I waited for his call. One day. One month. One year. But he never came back. He vanished from my life as if the years we had grown up together had never existed.
Until the day my mother died. I still remember that morning precisely. The house that used to be full of laughter suddenly became quiet and empty. I sat by my mother's bed, holding her cold hand, wondering why such a good person as her had to endure so much suffering. I called my brother. Over and over again. I sent him messages. I told him that Mom had died.
I begged him to come back and say goodbye to her. But he didn't come. On the day of the funeral, I kept looking toward the entrance of the cemetery. I desperately hoped he would show up. Even if it was late. Even if he stood just far away in the distance. Yet, in the end, I only received a single short message from him: “Handle everything that has to do with Mom on your own.” I stared at those words for a long time.
I didn't cry. Perhaps because I had already shed too many tears in the years before. From that day on, I decided that I no longer had a brother. I handled everything alone. I organized my mother's funeral. I cleaned up the old house. I accepted that some people – no matter how important they had once been – in the end choose to leave. I thought my life would go on like that.
Until a rainy night, shortly before two in the morning. The ringing of my phone abruptly jerked me out of my sleep. I looked at the display. A name that had vanished from my life for twelve years. My brother. For a few seconds, I just stared at the glowing screen. So many emotions rose inside me all at once. Anger. Bewilderment. And even a spark of hope that I didn't want to admit to myself.
Finally, I picked up. “Where are you?” Those were the first words he said to me after twelve years of silence. No apology. No explanation. Just a question full of fear. “I am at home.” His voice changed abruptly. “Don't go outside.” I laughed bitterly. “For twelve years I hear nothing from you. You didn't even come to Mom's funeral. And now you call me in the middle of the night just to tell me not to go outside?” At the other end, it remained silent.
I heard his heavy breathing. Then he said quietly: “You don't understand.” “What don't I understand?” He didn't answer immediately. After a few seconds, he whispered: “Someone is after you.” A cold shudder ran down my spine. “Who?” But before he could answer... I heard a sound in the living room. Knock. Knock. Knock. Three times. Slowly. Clearly. I looked toward the front door.
The whole house turned dead silent. I cautiously stepped closer. “Where are you?” I whispered into the phone. He didn't answer. Instead, he said: “Do not open the door.” I stopped. A feeling of panic spread through my body. I peered through the peephole. No one. The hallway was empty. কিন্তু I was certain someone had been standing there just a second ago.
I turned around. My brother was still on the line. And then I heard his voice, so quiet it was barely more than a whisper: “Listen to me…” I didn't know why, but in that moment I felt that I was about to learn a truth that would change my entire life. “Mom didn't die of an illness.” I froze. “What?” “Mom had discovered our father's secret.” I clutched my phone tighter.
My father had died years ago. In everyone's memory, he had been a successful, respected man and the pride of our family. In short, the whole family loved him. But why should my mother have to die because she found something out about him? “What secret?” He gave no answer. Instead, he asked: “Do you still have the red box that Mom left behind?” I slowly turned my head toward the table in the living room.
My heart began to beat faster. There stood a small red box. I had never opened it. I had never taken it out of the closet. But now it lay right in front of me. I didn't know who had put it there. And even less did I understand how my brother knew about it. “What kind of box is that?” I asked with a trembling voice. He remained silent for a long time. Then he spoke his final words: “If anyone asks you about the red box…” “Never say that you found it.” In that moment... the connection broke. Simultaneously... the doorknob slowly began to move. And then I understood something deeply terrifying. The person outside... knew I was home.
