Saturday, 1:20 a.m.
Kolkata
His phone had buzzed once.
It was Shanchayita.
Her voice was trembling, half angry, half scared.
"Arnab, are you awake? Did you hear that explosion near the airport? The news says it was huge!"
He had rubbed his eyes, still half asleep. "Yeah, I heard. Probably a gas leak or something. Don't panic."
"Gas leak?!" she snapped. "Half the sky's on fire, Arnab!"
"I'll check," he'd said quietly.
But even as he spoke, the unease in his chest grew.
By the time the call ended, he'd already texted his father.
No reply.
He waited. Ten minutes. Fifteen. Then an hour.
Still nothing.
The night dragged on in silence. Sirens echoed from far away. The news channels screamed about "a massive explosion at Netaji Subhas Chandra Bose International Airport". Reporters spoke in hurried, uncertain tones, no clear cause yet, possibly a terror attack. The camera showed charred remains of glass walls and burning vehicles.
Arnab didn't sleep that night. He just sat by the window, watching the sky flicker orange and black, until dawn finally arrived.
Saturday, 10:05 a.m.
The college was quieter than usual. The usual chaos of morning classes was replaced by low whispers and uneasy glances.
Even the canteen guy had the radio turned on instead of music.
Arnab walked through the courtyard, his backpack hanging loosely from one shoulder. His face looked blank, but inside, his thoughts churned. He'd called his father again that morning,still no answer.
At the bench near the library, Aditya and two others were already seated, staring at their phones.
"Did you see the news?" one of them asked. "They're saying over two hundred are dead!"
"Two hundred!?" Shanchayita's voice came from behind. She looked pale, her usual bright energy gone. "They just said there's still fire near the cargo terminal.More than half of the airport's gone!"
Arnab didn't answer. He just nodded slightly and looked away.
The group fell silent. The sound of a helicopter somewhere above filled the pause.
Aditya finally said, "They're saying it might be terrorism. PM's giving a statement at noon."
At 12:05, every classroom in the building had turned on live news. The Prime Minister appeared on screen, his expression grave.
"Last night's tragedy in Kolkata has left the nation in shock. The cause of the explosion remains under investigation, but initial reports suggest deliberate sabotage. Security agencies have been placed on highest alert…"
The camera cut to visuals, rows of ambulances, army trucks, men in masks combing through debris.
Arnab sat at the back of the room, not really listening. His eyes stayed fixed on the banner at the bottom of the screen:
'17 missing personnel, investigation underway.'
After college ended, he didn't go home immediately. He walked aimlessly through the lanes, past the newsstands and the posters of faces now blackened by tape. Everyone he passed was talking about it, the shopkeeper, the taxi driver, the old man at the paan stall. Fear had become the new air of the city.
That night, the Chief Minister spoke on television, voice steady but strained.
"We are working closely with central agencies to determine what caused the explosion. There is no evidence yet of foreign involvement. Citizens are requested to remain calm…"
But no one was calm. Kolkata had stopped trusting silence.
Arnab sat alone in his room later that night, the faint hum of the ceiling fan mixing with the noise from the TV. He stared at his phone one last time. No message. No call.
He typed, deleted, then finally sent:
"Baba, please reply. Are you okay?"
Still nothing...
Saturday, 6:51 p.m. local time
Paris, France
The evening sun dipped low over the Seine, brushing the city with gold. The Eiffel Tower stood proud against the horizon, that perfect iron lace rising into the fading light. Tourists moved like small dots beneath it, their laughter and chatter blending into the soft hum of Paris.
Mark and Emily Carter walked hand in hand toward the tower's base.
They were both in their late twenties, middle-class Americans from Seattle. This was their first trip abroad, their first real vacation since getting married two years ago. Mark worked long hours at a tech firm; Emily taught art at a local school. Between rent, bills, and life, there had never been enough time.
Until now.
"This doesn't feel real," Emily said, tilting her head back to take in the tower. "It looks smaller in pictures."
Mark laughed. "Everything does. Except your shopping list."
She smirked, bumping his shoulder. "Hey, you loved that little scarf shop."
He grinned, but he didn't notice the surprise Emily tried to hide folded with a white envelope in her purse; a pregnancy test wrapped inside. She had planned to tell him tonight, at the top of the tower. The perfect surprise.
"Let's go up before it gets dark," she said.
They bought their tickets and stepped into the glass elevator, joining a crowd of excited tourists. The metal doors slid shut, and the city began to shrink beneath them.
Mark slid an arm around her waist. "Are you okay?"
She nodded, though her heart was racing, not from fear, but from the words she was holding in. "You're going to be a father."
The elevator dinged, opening onto the second level of the viewing deck. The wind hit them immediately, cool and sharp, carrying the scent of the river and roasted chestnuts from the street below. Paris glittered beneath them, alive and endless.
"This is it," she whispered. "Finally."
Mark smiled, pulling her close. "Worth the wait, huh?"
She nodded, looking at him, really looking. And for a second the world felt too perfect to be real.
Then came the sound.
A dull, heavy boom rolled through the metal frame, not loud, but deep enough to make the floor tremble under their shoes.
Mark frowned. "Did you feel that...."
The second blast swallowed the rest of his sentence.
A flash, white, red, then orange, shot upward from below. The tower lurched. The platform jumped under them. Glass shattered, alarms screamed, and the crowd erupted into chaos.
The air pressure punched through Mark's chest like a hammer. Emily stumbled backward, nearly losing her balance. He grabbed her arm.
"Stay down!" he shouted.
The lights flickered, then went out. For a second, there was nothing but the metallic groan of the tower, a deep, tortured sound that made the hair on their necks rise.
Another explosion hit, closer this time. The steel beneath them snapped like bone. The floor cracked open.
They fell, just a few meters, but it felt endless.
Emily hit first, the impact knocking the air out of her lungs. Her elbow smashed against a beam. Something popped in her shoulder. She tried to scream but only coughed, her throat filled with smoke.
Mark hit a second later. His ribs folded in with a sickening crunch. The air left his chest in one sharp gasp.
The world became heat and noise. Screams. Sirens. Metal tearing. The air smelled of burning oil and blood.
"Emily!" he rasped. His voice was barely a whisper.
She turned her head slowly. Her lips trembled. "Mark... I can't... breathe."
He crawled toward her, dragging his legs; one wasn't responding. The pain in his ribs came with every breath.
"You're okay. Just, just stay with me."
Her face was gray. There was a small wound above her eyebrow, bleeding steadily. Her chest rose in uneven jerks.
"Mark…" Her voice was shaking, weak. "It hurts. Everywhere."
"I know," he said, his voice cracking. "I know."
The sound of twisting metal roared again, deeper this time. The entire structure groaned, sagging under its own weight.
She smiled faintly, blood trickling down her cheek. "I was… going to tell you something."
"Not now, Em. Please."
"No… it's important." She swallowed hard, the effort painful. "You're going to be a dad."
For a second, he froze. He couldn't even feel the pain, only the numb shock settling in. "What?"
But before she could answer, the floor tilted. The railing above bent inward, screeching as it tore free.
"Em!" He tried to pull her closer, but his hand slipped, slick with blood.
The tower's upper section gave out. A beam came down, grazing his shoulder, flattening the ground beside them.
The noise was beyond sound now; it was vibration, chaos, and light.
Emily gasped, a choked, frightened breath, and the next moment, the rest of the platform collapsed.
They didn't fall far. The structure fell on them.
Steel crushed through glass, stone, and flesh. The fire hit seconds later, a sudden rush of white heat that turned the air to knives.
Mark couldn't move. Couldn't scream. His chest wouldn't rise anymore. His vision blurred at the edges, and every sound grew distant, like water closing in over his ears.
He turned his head, just enough to see her. Her eyes were half open, her lips trembling as she tried to form his name.
He wanted to say, 'I love you.'
He wanted to reach out.
But his arm never moved.
Silence engulfed him...
The Eiffel Tower was falling.
The structure twisted downward in slow motion, one beam after another snapping like bones. The top half sheared away and crashed into the lower levels, sending another wave of fire and debris through the city. Windows shattered for miles.
From the ground, it looked like the sky itself was bleeding.
Thousands screamed and ran, tripping over bodies and debris. Sirens wailed. Cameras caught the impossible: the Eiffel Tower breaking apart, vanishing into a storm of smoke and flame.
Within minutes, the heart of Paris was chaos.
News cameras rolled. Helicopters circled. Sirens wailed through the streets.
The world watched, horrified, as the unthinkable unfolded live.
By dawn, more than a thousand were confirmed dead.
France declared a national emergency. The President addressed the nation in tears.
The United Nations met in an emergency session.
America called it an act of war.
And somewhere, deep within the smoke and ruins of Paris, the world's peace shattered, quietly, completely.
Saturday, 11:04 p.m. Kolkata
The room was dark. The only light came from the television, a faint, cold glow flickering across the walls. The sound was low, a dull hum filling the silence without really breaking it.
Arnab sat still, eyes half-focused on the images, smoke, crowds, sirens.
He hadn't slept since the previous night. Not since the airport explosion.
The voice on the TV rose slightly, the anchor's tone urgent:
"BREAKING NEWS! Eiffel Tower Destroyed in Series of Explosions! Thousands Feared Dead."
For a moment, Arnab thought he'd misheard.But then the images appeared, the tower twisted, burning, broken against a crimson sky.
People on the screen screamed in languages he couldn't understand. Cameras shook. Sirens wailed.
And still, the sound in his room was low, muffled, almost peaceful in its dissonance.
He barely noticed when the red ticker changed again.
"National Headlines."
"Authorities have confirmed the airport explosion in Kolkata as deliberate sabotage. Several are still missing, investigation continues under tight security…"
Arnab's chest tightened. The words blurred together, Kolkata, explosion, missing.
The hum of the TV filled the room again, soft and hollow.
Then his phone buzzed. Once.
Then again.
He stared at it for a moment, unwilling to move, then picked it up. It showed 'Unknown Number'. Hesitant, he swiped to answer.
"Hello?"
A voice, measured and official, came through. "Mr. Arnab Ghosh?"
"Yes, speaking."
"This is Sub-Inspector Nirmal Roy from Lake Town Police Station. Am I speaking to the son of Dr. Amal Ghosh?"
Arnab straightened. "Yes. What's this about?"
There was a pause on the line, a quiet hesitation, like the officer was choosing his words.
"Mr. Ghosh… I'm very sorry to inform you. Your father was found dead near the Eastern Metropolitan Bypass shortly after midnight."
Arnab blinked. The words didn't make sense.
"…Found dead!? What do you mean found dead?!"
The officer exhaled softly. "The body was discovered around 12:10 a.m. by the police. Locals noticed it near the barricades and called us. There was a wound, a deep one, in the chest. We recovered his wallet and ID at the scene."
Arnab gripped the phone tighter. "So it's… confirmed?"
"Yes, sir. We verified with his office records. We tried to reach your family last night, but the lines were unstable after the airport incident."
He didn't answer.
The officer's tone lowered. "Please come to the station tomorrow morning for formal identification. Around 10.If possible. Bring a recent photograph of your father."
Arnab's voice broke.
He finally whispered,
"How… how did it happen?"
"That's still under investigation, sir," the voice said quietly. "We're treating it as a possible homicide."
A long silence followed.
The faint hum of the television filled the room again.
"I'm sorry for your loss, Mr. Ghosh."
The line clicked dead.
Arnab sat there, unmoving.
The phone was still in his hand.
The TV light flickered across his face, cutting through the dark.
Somewhere far away, a news anchor kept speaking.
But to Arnab, everything had gone silent...