Voices in the Mist
In a small village near Shantipur, the nights were heavy with mist, and the paddy fields stretched endlessly under the moonlight. The elders often warned: “Never answer if you hear your name after dark. It may be the Nishi calling.” Most dismissed it as superstition, but young Anirban, a college student visiting his ancestral home, laughed at the warnings. One humid night, as the crickets sang and the river murmured in the distance, Anirban sat on the veranda reading. Suddenly, he heard his mother’s voice calling softly from the fields: “Anirban, come here.” He frowned—his mother was asleep inside. The voice came again, urgent, tender, exactly like hers. Against his better judgment, he stepped down from the veranda and followed the sound. The mist thickened as he walked, swallowing the path. The voice shifted—it was now his father’s, then his best friend’s, each calling his name with perfect familiarity. His heart pounded, but curiosity pulled him deeper into the fields. At the edg...