“Do you need water? Water?” Mugdho asked as he walked through the crowd, His hands full of hope, Of water and biscuits. A twin’s quiet plea was left behind. “Stay,” he said. But the shadows had already moved Ahead of him. At Azampur, the air screamed— One moment, a giver of life, The next, a taker. A bullet marking its claim. In another moment, another place, Another man stood tall against the injustice. Abu Sayed stood still, His arms stretched wide— A stand against injustice, A silhouette in the chaos. It raced through the air— Four points of silence, Carved into his body. He fell, But in his fall, he rose. These are the memories we carry, Not carved in marble, But etched in our hearts. They were not kings, Not warriors of legend. They were us. Born of the same streets, Breathing the same air. Hopeful. Afraid. Unyielding. They gave us hope for a future— A future they’ll never see, But one we must build.