নামঃ Icra Arifin

গল্পঃ She is the sun that rose after the storm, not with fire, but with quiet gold—my mother, my mountain, my morning prayer. From the day the world dimmed and we lost him, she lit the lamps of our home with trembling hands that never stopped. Her eyes, drenched in sorrow, held a fierce, unspoken vow: “I am here, and I will be everything.” And she is—the silence that soothes, the thunder that protects, the lullaby and the shield. When the world pointed fingers, her voice—steel wrapped in silk—cut through: “Not my children.” She stands not as a wall, but a mother lion, fierce and full of grace. From dawn to midnight, she folds strength into meals, stitches courage into uniforms, and carries grief and groceries as sacred burdens. She never asked the sky “why me”—she became the sky itself. Every wrinkle on her palm is a story we survived. Every breath she takes is a hymn I carry. Today, I bow not to a woman, but to a warrior in soft skin who loved like two.