Sunny the Squirrel and the Mystery of the Lost Acorns

In the heart of Whispering Woods, where the trees swayed like dancers in the breeze, lived a curious little squirrel named Sunny. Sunny wasn’t like the other squirrels who spent all day gathering acorns and storing them for winter. Sunny loved asking questions. Why do leaves change color? How do birds know where to fly? And most importantly, what made the forest so alive with buzzing bees, chirping birds, and croaking frogs?

One bright morning, Sunny woke up to find something unusual. “Oh no!” she squeaked, her bushy tail flicking nervously. “All my acorns are gone!”

Sunny’s acorn stash had vanished, and a chill ran down her tiny squirrel spine. But instead of panicking, Sunny decided to turn this disaster into a learning adventure. She put on her little red backpack, grabbed her magnifying glass, and set out to solve the Mystery of the Lost Acorns.

Her first stop was Benny the Bluebird’s nest. Benny was wise and loved sharing facts about the forest.

“Good morning, Benny! Have you seen any squirrels sneaking around my acorns?” Sunny asked.

Benny tilted his head and chirped, “Hmm, not squirrels, Sunny. But I did notice some tracks near the oak tree by the river. They looked… unusual.”

Sunny’s eyes sparkled. “Tracks! I’ll check them out!” She scurried off, following the tiny footprints etched into the soft earth. Along the way, she met Lulu the Ladybug, who loved counting and numbers.

“Lulu! Can you help me figure out how many tracks there are?” Sunny asked.

Lulu crawled along the trail, counting with her tiny antennae. “One, two, three… seventeen! Seventeen little tracks, Sunny!”

Sunny nodded, impressed. “That’s perfect, Lulu! Numbers are important in solving mysteries.”

Following the trail deeper into the forest, Sunny noticed something shimmering under a pile of leaves. It was sticky and golden. “Hmm, honey?” Sunny guessed. Just then, Hoot the Owl swooped down from a nearby branch.

“Ah, Sunny! You’ve found the honeycomb! But remember, animals like you must be careful. Bees work hard to make honey, and we should never take it without permission.”

Sunny nodded seriously. “I understand, Hoot. But maybe the honey has a clue about my missing acorns?”

She examined the honeycomb closely and noticed tiny, round seeds stuck in the golden goo. “These aren’t acorns… they’re seeds from the oak tree!” Sunny exclaimed. “Could they belong to the thief?”

Determined, Sunny followed the trail to the riverbank, where she saw a small beaver family working diligently. The beavers were stacking sticks and mud to build a dam. Among the piles, Sunny spotted her acorns!

“Excuse me!” Sunny called politely. “Are these my acorns?”

The youngest beaver, Benny Jr., looked guilty. “Oh… we found them near our construction site. We didn’t know they belonged to anyone. We just wanted to see if we could use them to make our dam stronger.”

Sunny smiled gently. “It’s okay! I’m glad they were safe. But now I understand something important. We all share the forest, and we need to ask before taking something that isn’t ours.”

The beavers nodded. “We’re sorry, Sunny. Next time we’ll ask!”

Sunny carefully gathered her acorns and thanked the beaver family. On her way home, she thought about all the lessons she had learned that day. She learned to observe clues, ask questions, count carefully, and always consider other animals’ work. Most importantly, she learned about kindness, sharing, and respect for others.

Back in her cozy nest, Sunny arranged her acorns neatly. She felt proud—not just because she had found her acorns, but because she had learned so much along the way. She realized that learning could happen anywhere, even in a forest full of mysteries.

That evening, as the sun dipped behind the tall trees and the stars began to twinkle, Sunny shared her adventure with her friends. Benny the Bluebird, Lulu the Ladybug, and even the beaver family gathered to listen.

“And remember,” Sunny said, waving a tiny paw, “learning is everywhere! Whether you’re counting tracks, noticing leaves, or just asking questions, you can discover amazing things about the world around you. And always be kind, because everyone in the forest has something important to do.”

Her friends cheered, and Benny chirped, “Sunny, you’re the smartest squirrel in Whispering Woods!”

Sunny giggled, her tail flicking with happiness. “I think we’re all smart if we pay attention and work together.”

As night settled over the forest, the animals went to their homes, feeling a little wiser and a little braver. Sunny curled up in her nest, thinking about the next adventure, because in Whispering Woods, there was always something new to explore, always another question to ask, and always a chance to learn something magical.

And with that, the little squirrel drifted off to sleep, dreaming of counting clouds, chasing butterflies, and discovering the next big mystery that the forest had in store.

Whispers in the Fog

 

The fog rolled in thicker than ever that night, curling around the streets of Black Hollow like an uninvited guest. It was the kind of fog that seemed alive, hiding secrets in its gray folds. Maren shivered as she stepped off the train, clutching her coat tighter. She had arrived in the small, isolated town to care for her grandmother’s old Victorian house, a place she hadn’t seen since childhood. But something about Black Hollow felt different—darker, as if the town itself were holding its breath.

The first night in the house, Maren couldn’t sleep. Shadows danced across the walls, and the creaking floorboards whispered beneath her feet. At first, she told herself it was just the house settling, but then she heard it—a soft, mournful hum drifting through the hallways. It was a song she didn’t recognize, yet it tugged at a strange, unexplainable part of her.

Curiosity overpowered fear, and she followed the sound to the parlor, where the fog seemed to seep through the cracked windows. That’s when she saw him.

He stood there, pale and ethereal, like a man carved from moonlight, with eyes that glimmered in the dim candlelight. He didn’t speak, yet Maren understood him. His gaze carried centuries of loneliness and longing.

“Who… who are you?” she whispered, her voice trembling.

“I am what waits,” he said softly, each word curling like smoke into the room. “And I have been waiting for you.”

Her heart pounded. There was something magnetic about him, something that felt both terrifying and inevitable. She had read stories of ghosts, spirits bound to houses, but she had never believed. Now, standing before her, the impossible felt real.

Over the next days, the man appeared at odd hours, sometimes in the mirrors, sometimes at the end of her bed. He never spoke of his past, yet Maren felt herself drawn to him. She found herself sharing thoughts she had never told anyone—dreams, regrets, and unspoken desires. And in return, he revealed fragments of his world: glimpses of a life cut short, a love that had been stolen by time, and a sorrow that refused to rest.

Maren’s fear slowly twisted into something else: fascination, then desire. She would wake to find his silhouette leaning over her, his touch a whisper against her skin, fleeting yet burning. The town’s people avoided the house, their eyes dark with warning, but Maren no longer cared. All that mattered was him.

One night, under a silver sliver of moon, he led her into the garden. The fog hung heavy, yet there was a strange warmth between them.

“You belong here,” he said, his voice trembling with a longing that matched her own. “With me.”

Maren’s heart leapt, but a chill ran down her spine. “With you? But… you’re not alive. How can I—”

“I am alive in the ways that matter,” he interrupted gently. “The world beyond these walls cannot hold me, but I am yours as long as you choose me.”

It was a choice she didn’t hesitate to make. She felt it, the undeniable pull of a love that defied reason, a love that promised eternity, even if it was shrouded in shadow.

But love in Black Hollow came with a price. The fog thickened, carrying whispers of warnings Maren could not ignore. The house groaned, and the air grew icy. And then she saw them—faces in the fog, pale and gaunt, eyes hollow, reaching out from the mist. They were not alive, yet they were aware. Jealous. Angry.

“Leave… or join us,” they whispered, their voices a chorus of desperation.

Her lover’s hand found hers, warm in the cold. “They cannot have you. Not if you don’t want them to.”

As the night deepened, the spirits pressed closer, their cold fingers brushing against her skin. Maren clutched him tightly, feeling his heartbeat—or whatever it was—against hers. He leaned down, lips brushing her ear.

“Trust me,” he murmured. “There is only one way.”

The fog seemed to pulse, and the garden twisted around them, reality bending. Shadows reached for her, and she felt herself slipping, fear clawing at her. Then, with a single, whispered word, he drew the darkness into himself. It wasn’t a battle, not in the conventional sense—it was a merging, a surrender. The spirits shrieked, dissolving into the night, leaving only the two of them standing in a silence so profound it was almost painful.

Maren collapsed into his arms, trembling. “I… I thought I would lose you,” she whispered.

“You will not lose me,” he said. “Not while you choose this.”

The days turned into weeks, and the townspeople continued to whisper about the house, though none dared enter. Maren learned to move between worlds with him, stepping through shadows and fog as easily as one crosses a room. Her love had transformed into something darker, more intense—an intimacy not bound by time or flesh, but by the very essence of being.

Yet there were nights when she felt the chill of mortality, when she wondered if her body could withstand the union of life and death. Each time, he was there, pressing a kiss to her forehead, whispering promises that sounded like lullabies to the damned.

Eventually, Maren understood that Black Hollow had chosen her as much as she had chosen it. The fog was no longer frightening—it was a veil of love and warning, a reminder that passion often walks hand in hand with peril. And in that union of fear and desire, of longing and eternity, she found a love that was terrifyingly beautiful.

The man—her lover, her shadow, her eternity—pulled her close one last time beneath the crescent moon. His touch was cold yet comforting, and she finally understood the truth: in Black Hollow, love is never safe, but it is unforgettable.

And in the mist that swallowed the world beyond the garden, Maren let herself be claimed, her heart beating in time with his, in a world where the living and the dead could finally be one.

The Shadows of Tenaze

Tenaze was a town that seemed ordinary on the surface, with its winding roads, quiet alleys, and rows of houses built close enough for neighbors to whisper secrets across their balconies. Yet, everyone who lived there carried a strange heaviness, as if the very air pressed down on their chests. The elders would never say it out loud, but the people of Tenaze had long known that their home was not entirely theirs. Shadows lingered longer than they should, and whispers carried in the night even when no one was speaking.

It began one autumn night when the wind howled like a wounded beast and the electricity flickered in the houses on the northern edge of town. A young man named Elias had returned home late from the factory, his boots echoing against the narrow stone paths. He noticed something peculiar: every streetlight he passed seemed to die the moment he moved beyond it, leaving him with only the next circle of dim light. The darkness between each lamp felt thick, like it was alive, crawling closer with each step. Elias muttered curses to himself, quickening his pace.

When he reached his home, an old two-storied structure with peeling paint, he paused. From the window on the second floor, he swore he saw someone staring down at him. A pale face, too gaunt, too still, its eyes sunken black holes. But Elias lived alone. He bolted inside, heart hammering, but when he climbed the stairs and flung open the bedroom door, there was nothing. The air, however, was colder than it should have been. He told himself it was exhaustion. He didn’t notice the dark smear of something like ash clinging to the window frame.

The following days, people whispered of strange happenings. Livestock found drained of blood but without a single wound. Children claimed they heard voices calling their names from empty alleys. An old woman was found dead in her home, her face twisted in terror, and every mirror in her house shattered inward as though something had tried to crawl out. The authorities dismissed these as coincidences, accidents, or the foolish tales of overactive minds. But the people of Tenaze knew better.

Elias could not shake what he had seen. He began waking in the middle of the night to scratching sounds on his walls, as though claws raked against the plaster. The shadows in his room no longer matched the furniture; they seemed to bend and stretch unnaturally, sometimes standing upright as though mocking his shape. He tried to ignore it until one night, half-asleep, he heard a voice right next to his ear whisper, “You brought us back.”

Terrified, he sought the advice of the oldest resident of Tenaze, a recluse named Amara who lived on the hill by the graveyard. She was known for her strange rituals and for keeping her windows covered in symbols no one else understood. When Elias described what he had seen, her withered face grew pale. “The seals,” she whispered, “they are breaking.”

Long ago, she explained, Tenaze was built upon the site of an ancient tragedy. Before the town, there had been a settlement of outcasts who practiced forbidden rites, trying to open a door to something beyond. The villagers of that time had turned on them, burning their bodies and burying the ashes beneath stone markers at the edges of the land. To seal the place, they carved protective wards into the stones, keeping the restless dead from returning. But over the centuries, those stones had been forgotten, some destroyed, some built over, their symbols erased. Without them, the dead were stirring again.

Elias wanted to believe it was superstition, yet as Amara spoke, he remembered the ash on his window, the shadows that seemed to move on their own, the words whispered in his sleep. “What do we do?” he asked desperately.

Amara’s hollow eyes fixed on him. “The seals must be restored. But they will not allow it.”

That night, Elias tried to rally others, but fear had already gripped Tenaze. Few dared to act. Families huddled together inside their homes, burning candles through the night, praying in trembling voices. The streets became silent after dusk, though sometimes a scream would cut through the darkness, sharp and short, followed by silence that weighed heavier than before.

Determined, Elias went alone to the northern woods where one of the old stone markers still stood, cracked in two. He carried chalk and salt, tools Amara had given him, along with words to recite. The woods were suffocatingly silent, no crickets, no rustle of leaves, only the sound of his own breath. He found the marker, half-buried in moss, its carvings almost gone. As he bent to redraw the symbol, he felt a hand grip his shoulder.

It was not human.

The fingers were long and cold, pressing into his flesh like iron. He turned slowly, and his breath caught in his throat. A figure loomed behind him, taller than any man, its body made of smoke and bone, its face shifting like melting wax. Eyes hollow, mouth gaping, it leaned close, whispering with a hundred voices at once, “You cannot bind us.”

Elias fled, the chalk scattering, the salt spilling uselessly into the dirt. The thing did not chase him with speed but followed, its form flickering in and out of existence, always closer when he glanced back. By the time he reached the edge of town, his body was trembling, his vision blurred. He collapsed on the steps of his home, hearing the thing’s laughter echoing in his skull.

In the days that followed, Tenaze fell deeper into darkness. People disappeared without trace. Doors were found open in the mornings though bolted the night before. Smoke-like figures drifted through the alleys, vanishing when approached. And always, always, the shadows grew longer, stretching toward the living as if hungry.

Elias tried again and again to repair the seals, but each attempt failed. The entities grew bolder, whispering his name in every corner, leaving marks on his walls, clawing at his windows. He realized, with a horror that hollowed his soul, that they were bound to him. That night when he saw the face in his window, when he felt the whisper on his neck, something had chosen him. Not as prey. As a bridge.

The people of Tenaze began to avoid him, their eyes filled with both pity and terror. Rumors spread that Elias had invited the darkness himself, that his blood carried the sins of the old settlement. Alone, abandoned, and haunted, he sought Amara one final time.

She looked at him with sorrow. “You are the vessel now. They will not stop until they walk fully in this world, and they will do it through you.”

“Then what do I do?” Elias begged.

Her answer was soft but merciless. “End yourself before they fully open the door.”

That night, Elias lit a single candle in his darkened room. The walls writhed with shadows, dozens of faces forming in the black, all whispering, coaxing, pleading. He held a knife in his trembling hands, knowing that with his death, perhaps the town might survive. But as he pressed the blade to his chest, the voices changed. They were no longer cruel, but gentle, familiar. His mother’s voice. His father’s. Friends long gone. They begged him not to leave them, not to abandon them again. His tears fell hot onto the blade.

The candle sputtered out.

In the morning, his house stood silent. No body was ever found. Only shadows pooled unnaturally in the corners, never lifting, even in daylight.

From that day, Tenaze was never the same. The people still live there, carrying on with their lives, but the weight in the air is heavier than ever. They know Elias walks among them, though his face is hidden in the shadows. And when night falls, no one dares whisper his name, for fear the shadows will answer back.

The curse of Tenaze is alive, and the darkness is only growing hungrier.

Eternal Kiss of the Forgotten City

 

The sun dipped low over the desert horizon, casting long shadows across the dunes as Rafiq tightened the strap of his pack. He had come far already, chasing the whispered stories of an ancient city buried beneath the sands, a place where treasure and secrets lay hidden. But more than treasure, he wanted something he couldn’t quite name—perhaps meaning, perhaps escape from the monotony of his old life. Adventure had always been a dream, and here he was, standing on the edge of it.

He hadn’t expected anyone else to be out there, especially not a woman. Yet, as he crested the next dune, he saw her: a figure draped in flowing cloth the color of twilight, her face half-shielded from the wind. She was adjusting the reins of a camel that seemed restless under the golden sky. When she noticed him, her eyes narrowed, sharp and guarded.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she said, her voice low but firm, carried by the desert wind.

Rafiq stopped, surprised. “And yet, here we both are.”

Her lips curved into the faintest shadow of a smile, though her stance didn’t soften. “The desert doesn’t forgive foolish travelers. You’ll lose more than your way.”

He was about to reply when a sudden gust swept between them, revealing in the distance the faint outline of stone half-buried in the sand. The ruins. His pulse quickened. She followed his gaze and shook her head. “That city is cursed. The desert swallowed it for a reason.”

Cursed or not, he couldn’t resist. But something about her presence stirred him in ways he hadn’t anticipated. She was no mirage—her every movement was alive, precise, commanding. Curiosity outweighed caution, and he stepped closer. “Then why are you here if not for the same city?”

Her eyes softened briefly. “Because I belong to it.”

That answer only deepened the mystery. She turned, leading her camel toward the ruins, and without another word, he followed.

They reached the broken gates by nightfall, the moonlight casting the stones in silver. The air was heavy, thick with silence, as though the city itself still breathed in the shadows of its walls. Inside, carvings lined the crumbling arches, telling stories of kings, battles, and lovers lost to time. Rafiq felt the thrill of discovery pulse through him, but it wasn’t just the ruins—it was her, this stranger walking beside him with an elegance that defied the desolation around them.

At a crumbled courtyard, she finally sat, removing her veil. Her face glowed in the pale moonlight, her eyes deep and luminous, like wells of secrets. “My name is Amira,” she said softly, almost as if offering him a gift.

“Rafiq,” he answered, his voice caught somewhere between awe and relief.

Amira studied him, her gaze piercing. “Why did you come here? Truly?”

He hesitated, then told her the truth. He was tired of living half-asleep, tired of a world where every day repeated the last. He wanted something real, even if it meant danger.

Her expression softened. “Then maybe the desert chose you.”

Over the next days, they explored the ruins together. The city was vast, its alleys swallowed by dunes, its towers broken like ribs jutting from the sand. Each discovery they made seemed to bring them closer, not just in distance but in something deeper. She knew the city intimately, guiding him through hidden chambers, telling him stories of its forgotten glory.

One evening, as the desert winds howled outside, they sheltered in a half-collapsed temple. Rafiq lit a small fire, and Amira sat close, the shadows dancing across her face. She told him then of the curse: the city had once been ruled by a king who defied the gods for love. In his defiance, he bound his beloved’s soul to the city, refusing to let her go even in death. The gods punished him, burying the city in sand, binding all who loved within its walls to the same fate.

Rafiq stared at her, realization dawning. “You’re… part of that curse.”

Her silence was enough of an answer.

His chest tightened, a storm of emotions whirling inside him. He wanted to deny it, to pretend she was just a woman like any other, but the way the ruins seemed to bend around her, the way the desert winds fell silent when she spoke—he knew.

“Then why let me follow you?” he asked quietly.

Her eyes shimmered with sorrow. “Because perhaps you’re the one who can free me.”

That night, sleep escaped him. He lay awake beside the dying fire, watching her, torn between desire and dread. Freedom meant ending the curse, but what if it also meant losing her?

At dawn, they reached the heart of the ruins, where a great stone altar stood. Symbols carved into its surface pulsed faintly in the morning light, alive despite centuries buried. Amira stood before it, her cloak whipping in the wind.

“This is where it ends,” she whispered. “Or begins.”

Rafiq stepped closer. “Tell me what to do.”

She turned to him, tears tracing her cheeks. “Love me enough to let me go.”

His throat tightened. He wanted to hold her, to fight fate itself to keep her with him. But he saw in her eyes the truth: she had been bound for centuries, trapped in sorrow, waiting for someone who would choose her freedom over their own heart.

Slowly, he cupped her face, his thumb brushing away her tears. “I love you,” he said, every word heavy with devotion. Then he kissed her, pouring into it everything he had, every longing, every dream.

The ground trembled, light bursting from the altar, engulfing them both. He felt her body grow weightless in his arms, her warmth fading, her form dissolving like mist in sunlight. She smiled through her tears, her voice barely audible: “Thank you.”

And then she was gone.

The ruins stilled, the wind easing into silence. The curse had broken. But Rafiq stood alone, his heart torn open, aching with loss yet burning with something greater. He had freed her, and in doing so, found the very meaning he had sought.

When he finally left the desert, the sands behind him whispered her name with every step of the wind. He carried her memory not as a wound, but as proof that love could be stronger than fate, stronger even than time. His adventure had ended, but his story had only just begun.

Whispers of the Cursed Island

 

The rain had just stopped when Arman stepped off the small ferry onto the rugged island. His shoes sank slightly into the damp earth, the scent of salt and pine filling his lungs. The island, barely marked on any map, seemed like another world altogether—untamed cliffs, forests so dense they looked almost black, and a mysterious ruin that he had come to see for himself. It was meant to be an adventure, nothing more. He wanted to escape the monotony of his routine life back in the city, where everything was predictable, including his own heart.

What he did not expect was to find someone waiting on the island.

Leila appeared like a whisper from the trees, her long black hair wet with rain, eyes sharp and questioning as they met his. She wore a cloak made of rough wool, too archaic for someone his age. She looked as if she belonged to another century, as though the island itself had carved her from its rocks and shadows.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she said, her voice firm yet strangely musical.

“I could say the same about you,” Arman replied with a nervous smile, clutching the map in his hand.

She studied him for a long time, then turned away, walking into the forest without another word. Something about her silence pulled him forward, his footsteps echoing hers until they were moving together through the damp undergrowth. The adventure he had imagined suddenly shifted—no longer about ruins or exploration, but about the girl who seemed part mystery, part danger.

As they climbed toward the cliffs, she finally spoke. “The ruin you’re looking for—it isn’t a place for tourists. It has a story, a curse even. Many who come here never leave the same.”

Arman chuckled lightly. “I’m not afraid of old legends.”

“You should be,” she whispered.

The ruin stood at the edge of the cliff, its stones blackened with age, walls half-collapsed but still radiating something ancient, something heavy. The wind howled around them as if warning them to turn back. Arman stepped closer, running his fingers across the cold stone carvings, when suddenly Leila caught his wrist.

Her touch was both warm and electric, sending a current through his body he couldn’t explain. He looked at her, really looked at her this time, and something in her eyes made his heart stumble. They were not just the eyes of a stranger—they carried loneliness, longing, and a strange glimmer of hope.

“Why are you here, really?” she asked.

“I wanted an adventure,” he admitted. “Something real. Something that makes me feel alive again.”

She dropped his wrist slowly, her fingers lingering as though reluctant to let go. “And if what you find is more than you can handle?”

“Then maybe that’s the risk worth taking,” he replied.

That night, they stayed by a fire in a cave near the cliff. Leila told him the story of the ruin: a tale of two lovers separated by a curse. One had been bound to the island, unable to leave, while the other perished at sea trying to return. Ever since, the island had been marked by their sorrow, trapping souls who dared to love too deeply here.

Arman laughed softly. “That sounds tragic.”

“It’s more than a story,” she said, her gaze fixed on the flames. “It’s why I can’t leave this place.”

The words hung between them, heavy with meaning he couldn’t quite grasp. But as the firelight flickered across her face, he realized he didn’t care about curses or legends anymore. All he saw was her—this mysterious, impossible girl who made the silence of the island feel alive.

Days passed in a blur. They wandered the forests together, shared food and laughter, and slowly, carefully, their hearts began to orbit one another. Arman found himself telling her things he had never told anyone: about his loneliness in the city, his yearning for something extraordinary, his fear that he had been sleepwalking through life. She listened without judgment, her eyes softening with every word.

One evening, on the cliff where the ruin stood, he finally asked, “Leila, if you could leave, would you?”

She didn’t answer at first. The sea crashed below them, the horizon burning orange with the sunset. Then, almost too softly to hear, she said, “Only if I wasn’t alone.”

Arman reached for her hand, their fingers intertwining. It was as if the island itself exhaled at that moment, the wind falling still, the air heavy with their closeness. He wanted to kiss her, to break through the distance she kept like a shield. But before he could, she pulled away, her eyes glistening.

“You don’t understand,” she said, her voice trembling. “I am part of the curse. If you love me, you will never leave this place either.”

He stepped closer, his voice steady. “Then maybe that’s exactly where I’m meant to be.”

She shook her head, tears streaking down her cheeks. “No, Arman. You have a life waiting for you. Dreams beyond this island. I can’t steal that from you.”

But Arman refused to turn back. The following night, when the moon bathed the ruin in silver light, he found her there, standing among the broken stones as though caught between worlds. Without hesitation, he stepped forward and kissed her. It was desperate, aching, and filled with all the things he couldn’t say. For a moment, the world seemed to collapse around them, the stones groaning, the air crackling with an unseen force.

When the wind settled, she was still there in his arms—real, trembling, alive.

The curse had not taken him. Instead, something had shifted. Leila’s face was bathed in moonlight, and for the first time, she looked free.

“You broke it,” she whispered.

Arman didn’t understand, but she explained with tears in her eyes: the curse had bound her to the island until someone chose her not out of pity, not out of accident, but out of love so fierce it would defy even fate. He had done what no one else could—believe in her more than in his own freedom.

The next morning, the island felt different. The shadows were lighter, the sea calmer, the air less burdened. Together, they boarded the small ferry back to the mainland. She gripped his hand tightly as if afraid she might vanish with every passing wave, but she didn’t. She was free.

When they reached the shore, Arman looked at her and smiled. “Adventure, right?”

She laughed through her tears. “No, Arman. This isn’t an adventure anymore. This is love.”

And as they walked away from the sea, their steps in rhythm, hearts still racing from everything they had endured, Arman realized that he had found more than an escape, more than a story. He had found the one thing he hadn’t even known he was looking for—someone who turned his world into an endless journey, a love strong enough to feel like both destiny and freedom.

ভুয়া পরিচয়ে কোটি টাকার প্রতারণা: খালেদা জিয়ার কর্মকর্তার ছদ্মবেশে গ্রেপ্তার ব্যক্তি

 সাবেক প্রধানমন্ত্রী ও বিএনপি চেয়ারপারসন খালেদা জিয়ার লিয়াজোঁ অফিসার বলে পরিচয় দিয়ে কোটি কোটি টাকা হাতিয়ে নেওয়ার অভিযোগে এক ব্যক্তির বিরুদ্ধে মামলা করেছে পুলিশের অপরাধ তদন্ত বিভাগ (সিআইডি)।

মানি লন্ডারিং প্রতিরোধ আইনে মোতাল্লেছ হোসেন নামে ওই ব্যক্তির বিরুদ্ধে মামলা হয়েছে।

আজ সোমবার সিআইডির পাঠানো এক সংবাদ বিজ্ঞপ্তিতে জানানো হয়, মোতাল্লেছ হোসেনের নামে খোলা ব্যাংক হিসাবে প্রায় ২০ কোটি টাকার লেনদেনের প্রমাণ পাওয়া গেছে।

সিআইডি বলছে, মোতাল্লেছ হোসেনের এম এল ট্রেডিং নামে একটি প্রতিষ্ঠান বাস্তবে অস্তিত্বহীন। প্রতিষ্ঠানটির ট্রেড লাইসেন্স থাকলেও কোনো ব্যবসায়িক কার্যক্রম পাওয়া যায়নি। কখনো নিজেকে পোশাক কারখানার মালিক, কখনো চা-বাগান উদ্যোক্তা কিংবা ঠিকাদার পরিচয় দিয়ে প্রভাবশালী মহলের সঙ্গে সম্পর্ক গড়ে তুলতেন তিনি।

পরে খালেদা জিয়ার অসুস্থতার কথা বলে বিএনপি–সংশ্লিষ্ট ব্যক্তিদের কাছ থেকে নিজের ব্যাংক হিসাবে প্রায় ১৫ কোটি টাকা সংগ্রহ করে আত্মসাৎ করেন তিনি।

মোতাল্লেছ হোসেনের বিভিন্ন হিসাবে থাকা পাঁচ কোটি টাকার বেশি অর্থ আদালতের আদেশে জব্দ করা হয়েছে। এ ঘটনায় গতকাল রোববার বিকেলে মানি লন্ডারিং প্রতিরোধ আইন, ২০১২-এর ধারায় রাজধানীর পল্লবী থানায় মামলা (নম্বর-১৯) করা হয়েছে। মামলায় মোতাল্লেছ হোসেনসহ অজ্ঞাতনামা আরও দু-তিনজনকে আসামি করা হয়েছে।

সাবেক সচিব আবু আলম শহীদ খান গ্রেপ্তার

 

রাজধানীর শাহবাগ থানার একটি মামলায় সাবেক সচিব আবু আলম মোহাম্মদ শহীদ খানকে গ্রেপ্তার করেছে ঢাকা মহানগর পুলিশের (ডিএমপি) গোয়েন্দা বিভাগ (ডিবি)।

আজ সোমবার ডিএমপির গণমাধ্যম ও জনসংযোগ বিভাগের এক খুদে বার্তায় এ তথ্য জানানো হয়। সম্প্রতি বিভিন্ন টেলিভিশন টক শোতে অংশ নিয়ে আলোচনায় আসেন শহীদ খান।

ডিএমপির গণমাধ্যম ও জনসংযোগ বিভাগের খুদে বার্তায় বলা হয়, শহীদ খান ও ঝটিকা মিছিলে অংশ নেওয়া পাঁচজনসহ মোট ছয়জনকে গ্রেপ্তার করেছে ডিবি।

তবে এই ব্যক্তিদের কখন, কোন এলাকা থেকে গ্রেপ্তার করা হয়েছে, তা খুদে বার্তায় জানানো হয়নি।

তবে ডিবির রমনা বিভাগের উপকমিশনার (ভারপ্রাপ্ত) ইলিয়াস কবির প্রথম আলোকে বলেন, গতকাল রোববার রাতে রাজধানীর বোরাক টাওয়ার থেকে শহীদ খানকে গ্রেপ্তার করা হয়।

ডিএমপি বলছে, রাজধানীতে ঝটিকা মিছিল করে নাশকতার চেষ্টা ও জনশৃঙ্খলা ভঙ্গের অভিযোগে এই অভিযান চালানো হয়। এ সময় সাবেক সচিব শহীদ খান ছাড়াও আরও পাঁচজনকে ঘটনাস্থল থেকে আটক করা হয়। পরে তাঁদের বিরুদ্ধে আইনগত ব্যবস্থা নেওয়া হয়েছে।