Chapter 1 : Ashes of a Dream

"who you are, who we are, rajakar,rajakar* 

who said who said soirachar, soirachar" (fascist regime)

On a midsummer day in July, roads were filled with people despite the burning hot weather.

 Rayhan stood in the thick of a protest, his throat was dried from all those shouting, his shirt drenched with sweat.

Alongside thousands of university students, he was protesting against the Awami League government's controversial quota system, a policy that, while designed to uplift marginalized groups, awarded 28% of government jobs to descendants of freedom fighters who were the backbone of the ruling party.

To Rayhan and his companions, this felt unfair. Why should someone inherit privilege because of their grandfather's past, while capable candidates like himself were left behind?

Rayhan ,a brilliant student, came from an impoverished family and had recently graduated from Dhaka University with an excellent CGPA with a dream of joining the civil service.

But when the BCS results were published, he missed the cutoff just for two marks. Others, with significantly lower scores, secured jobs thanks to the quota.His ambition and hope were crippled under this deeply flawed system.

For two weeks, Rayhan marched through the street of Dhaka,enduring heat, tear gas, and police batons.But today, the sun was unforgiving.He sat down on a sidewalk near Shahbagh, wiping sweat from his brow, trying to catch his breath.Then came the gunshot.

"TAT-TAT-TAT!" bullets tore through the air as if it was a thunder.

Chaos exploded. People began retreating to save their lives for future struggle.

The scream for help of the wounded man filled the air. Some died giving final scream in agony and painted the roads of shahbag which will later represent as a symbol of their noble sacrifice.

Rayhan tried to rise but couldn't. His frozen body betrayed him . The hours of meaningless shouting against a deaf government to listen made him too tired to run away.

A burning pain felt in his chest as blood began to pour outBlood soaked his shirt.

He looked down, wide-eyed,and watched the world for the final moment .The sun shy away under the cloud looking at the shameless action of the police.

And as his consciousness faded, only one bitter thought echoed in his mind:

"In the end , i died in worthless way. Sorry mom, dad , I couldn't live up to your expectation "

Seeing the face of his parents, his life ended — not with justice, or triumph — but with anguish and regret.

Foyez suddenly woke up hearing the sound of wild cheering and gunfire, no in a way he heard before but in celebration.

His eyes fluttered open slowly, his head was in pain. Above him, sunlight poured through the wholes of tent. Outside the tent, excited men raised their rifles skyward and cried out, "Joy Bangla! Joy Bongobondhu! Long live Bangladesh!"

His heart thumped in confusion.' What happened to the protest? The shot? Why are they shouting?'

He tried to sit up, but pain shot through his limbs. His body felt... off. Lighter. Younger. He looked down—his skin was smoother, paler. His arms, though wrapped in bandages,felt young and smooth. What the hell...?

The cheers outside continued. He caught bits of conversation.

"They surrendered!"

"After all these months... it's over! "

"Pakistani generals gave in—India brokered it."

"Finally, we can return back home"

As he tried standing on his feet, a soldier walked inside and noticed him. 

"Oi, look who's awake! You were out for a good while. Took a nasty blow to the head near Joydebpur."

"W-where... what's going on?" Foyez muttered.

" My friend, after a long struggle Pakistan finally surrendered.We've won the war!"

The world began to shake. Foyez's breath caught in his throat.

Victo....ry day meansDecember 16... 1971? How did i end up here?!

He grabbed the soldier's arm, trying to clarify the situation. "Who am I? What's my name?"

The man blinked. "You hit your head harder than I thought. You're Faisal Ahmed—we call you Foyez. A Mukti Bahini guerrilla. Seventeen years old. Damn good fighter too. Don't remember?"

Foyez didn't answer. His head was spinning.

I was Rayhan... I died in a protest in 2024.

And now I'm Foyez... a teenager again, and most importantly in post-war Bangladesh?

The soldier's expression softened. "You're lucky, brother. Thought we lost you. Some say the Allah kept you alive to see this day."

Foyez sat silently as a thousand thoughts raced through his mind.' What is this place? What now? What happened to the protest? And my pare..nts!'

He touched his bandaged forehead .

He had dreamed of being remembered. Of making change. Of escaping the weight of corruption and inequality. Now, somehow, he had been reborn at the very beginning—in the ashes of a country just freed, but not yet healed.

The soldier sat beside him, pulling out a crushed pack of Star cigarettes. "You smoke?"

Foyez hesitated, then nodded. He had been a smoker in his past life.

"Kept two of these hoping to smoke before martyrdom. But it seems dying in the battlefield wasn't my fate at all."

He handed one over, and they smoked in silence.

Gunshots of joy rang in the distance. Smoke curled into the sky. A torn Pakistani flag burned in the dirt, and a shining flag of Bangladesh is placed upon its place.

Victory was here—but peace was far off.

Foyez knew: the real war was just beginning.