Foyez stirred to the sound of wild cheering and gunfire—not the kind fired in anger, but in celebration.
His eyes fluttered open slowly, his head pounding. Above him, sunlight poured through the thatched roof. Around him, ragged but jubilant men raised their rifles skyward and cried out, "Joy Bangla! Victory! Long live Bangladesh!"
His heart thumped in confusion. Victory? What happened to the protest? The shot?
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, were smaller. 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."
As he struggled to his feet, a soldier walked by and noticed him. "Oi, look who's awake! You were out for a good while. Took a nasty blow to the head near Mirpur."
"W-where... what's going on?" Foyez muttered.
"You serious? My friend, it's December 16, 1971! Victory Day! We've won the war!"
The world tilted. Foyez's breath caught in his throat.
December 16... 1971?
He grabbed the soldier's arm, trying to clarify if he really got reborn. "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 2024.
And now I'm Foyez... a teenager again, in post-war Bangladesh?
The soldier's expression softened. "You're lucky, brother. Thought we lost you. Some say the gods themselves kept you alive to see this day."
Foyez sat silently as a thousand thoughts raced through his mind. What is this place? What now?
He touched his bandaged forehead and winced.
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 only beginning.