Title: The Vanishing Rickshaw

 

Writer : Masum

 Blog: EditorPosts

It was a humid evening in Old Dhaka. The narrow alleyways buzzed with honking rickshaws and the smoky scent of grilled kebabs. But among the chaos, a mysterious rumor was spreading—about a rickshaw that appeared only at midnight and disappeared before dawn, taking its passengers… somewhere else.

Nayeem, a 17-year-old who lived near Shakhari Bazar, didn't believe in ghost stories. But that changed the night his little brother, Tanvir, vanished after claiming he saw the “midnight rickshaw.”

Determined to find his brother, Nayeem waited on the street at 11:59 PM. Just as the clock struck twelve, the air grew thick, the sounds faded, and out of the fog rolled an old, black-and-gold rickshaw. Its wheels didn’t touch the ground. The rickshaw-puller was cloaked in white, his face hidden behind a glowing mask.

“Looking for someone?” the rickshaw-wala asked.

Without thinking, Nayeem jumped in.

The world around him warped. Old Dhaka faded into shadows. When it cleared, Nayeem was in a city of memories—echoes of things forgotten, streets paved with stories, and people who existed only in dreams. Tanvir was there, smiling, but distant—as if he didn’t recognize his own brother.

To bring Tanvir back, Nayeem had to trade a memory of equal weight.

He gave up the memory of his first bicycle ride with his dad—his happiest moment.

Suddenly, everything snapped back. Nayeem was alone on the street, clutching Tanvir’s hand. The rickshaw was gone.

Tanvir was safe, but something in Nayeem had changed. He couldn’t remember why he cried whenever he saw a bicycle.

And somewhere, far away, in the city of memories, a rickshaw rolled on—carrying pieces of people’s pasts.

Title: The Vanishing Rickshaw

Part Two: The Memory Collector

Weeks had passed since Nayeem rescued Tanvir, but something wasn’t right.

He started seeing glimpses of the rickshaw in reflections—on puddles, car mirrors, even polished utensils. Each time, it vanished the moment he blinked. Tanvir, on the other hand, became oddly quiet. He’d wake up in the middle of the night whispering in his sleep: “The man with no face is waiting…”

One evening, while cleaning out an old trunk in their attic, Nayeem found something bizarre: a photo of his dad riding a bicycle—with a boy. But it wasn’t Nayeem. The boy’s face was blank, like someone had painted it over with fog. And written in neat Bengali script on the back:

“He gave what could never return. Payment accepted.”

Nayeem was done playing scared. He took the photo, marched outside, and yelled into the night, “Take me back!”

And just like that—the rickshaw appeared.

This time, it looked… older. Rustier. The golden rims were now dull silver. The masked rickshaw-puller looked directly at him, but the mask was cracked. Something glowed underneath.

“You still remember?” the puller said. “That makes you dangerous.”

Nayeem climbed in without hesitation. “Take me to the city.”

This time, the journey hurt. His skin buzzed, his eyes blurred, and his memories flashed before him like a broken film reel.

He woke up not in the city of memories, but in a strange archive—miles of drawers and shelves, each holding bottled memories. Floating jars labeled with names. He saw one with his own name: “Nayeem Hossain – Happiness: First Bicycle Ride.”

He opened it. Inside was a swirling golden mist.

“Take it,” came a voice.

It wasn’t the rickshaw-puller this time. It was a young girl, about his age, with stormy eyes and a bottle in her hand labeled “Ayla – Birthday: The Last One With Mom.”

She was a prisoner too.

Together, they hatched a plan.

If they could find the heart of the Archive—the Original Memory—they could break the system, free everyone trapped, and destroy the rickshaw's curse.

But they only had one shot. If they failed, they’d be forgotten forever.

And as they reached the center of the Archive, they saw it:

A giant memory orb, pulsating with light, guarded by the rickshaw-puller—who now removed his mask.

He had no face.

He was made of forgotten things. Pieces of everyone. A patchwork of pain and joy.

“You came back,” he said. “But you brought hope. That… was a mistake.”

To be continued... 👀

Title: The Vanishing Rickshaw  

Part Three: The Face of Forever

The heart of the Archive throbbed like a living thing. Nayeem and Ayla stood before it, breathless. In front of them, the faceless rickshaw-puller hovered silently.ut now, his body was shifting—rippling with thousands of faces, constantly changing.

“Every face I wear,” he said, voice like a broken radio, “is a memory someone gave up. I am what they forgot.”

Ayla stepped forward, gripping her memory jar. “Then it’s time someone remembered.”

She hurled the jar into the orb.

BOOM.

Light exploded, and the Archive shook. The rickshaw-puller screamed—not in pain, but in panic. Cracks appeared on the orb, and the jars all around them started to vibrate, glowing brighter.

Nayeem didn’t hesitate. He grabbed his jar—the memory of riding his bike with his father—and smashed it against his chest.

The golden mist surged through him. In a flash, Nayeem remembered everything: the wobbling wheels, his dad’s hand steadying him, the smell of mangoes in the air, the freedom of speed.

Tears filled his eyes—but he smiled.

The rickshaw-puller staggered. “You fools… you don’t get it. If the memories return—so does the pain!”

“That’s the point,” Nayeem said. “We’re supposed to feel.”

Suddenly, the shelves cracked. Jars burst open one by one, unleashing millions of memories—sad ones, beautiful ones, forgotten joys and long-lost griefs. They swirled through the Archive like a storm, returning to their rightful owners.

And the rickshaw? It began to unravel.

The wheels spun into light. The frame shattered into fireflies. And the puller?

He fell to his knees. One last face appeared on him—it was his own. A boy’s face. Scared. Lonely. Forgotten by the world.

“I was the first passenger,” he whispered, before fading like mist at dawn.

Ayla grabbed Nayeem’s hand. “It’s time.”

A door opened in front of them—not the rickshaw this time. Just light. Pure, warm, and real.

They stepped through—

And woke up.

Nayeem gasped. He was on his rooftop. Morning sun on his face. Tanvir beside him, smiling. And across the alley, he saw Ayla.

She remembered too.

And the rickshaw?

Gone.

But sometimes, when the wind blew just right, you could still hear its bell, echoing faintly between the alleys of Old Dhaka.

Not as a threat.

But as a warning:

Never forget what makes you who you are.

Want a special epilogue? Or spin-off story with Ayla? 👀🔥