The morning adhan broke through the fragile hush of the room.
"Allahu Akbar... Allahu Akbar."
The muezzin's voice rose, not as sound, but as soul . As if it had been torn from the breath of the unseen and sent to pierce whatever was left of sleep.
Jamal didn't move.
He lay still, chest rising slow, arms resting above his head, eyes fixed on the wooden ceiling that had become his witness these past few weeks. The ceiling knew everything, the restless tossing, the quiet duʿāʾs whispered when even the wind outside had gone mute.
Since the dream, that mirror dream, he had not been the same.
At first, he tried to dismiss it. A figment of imagination, a half-memory stitched from old stories and buried yearning. But it wouldn't leave. It had grown. Stretched its limbs through his days. Took root in his sleep.
And then it began:
The signs.
A scarf of green silk fluttering on the market road.
A silhouette beneath the almond tree that turned when he blinked.
A voice that called out a name too close to hers, a name he had never spoken aloud.
Once, he passed a mirror stall near the spice souq, and for a moment, only a breath, he saw her reflection through his own in the mirror staring back. These were quite haunting.
He had not even met the Shaykh yet.
And still, his heart moved as if it had touched a hand that knew it before creation.
Three weeks.
Three weeks of this weight in his chest. This quiet desperation that masqueraded as calm. This ache that tightened every time he walked through Nur Afiya and thought he saw her again, just turning the corner, just out of reach.
His body stayed still on the bed. But his soul?
It had not known stillness since.
With a heavy breath, Jamal sat up.
His hand dragged down his face, rough with stubble and sleep. He blinked hard, as if trying to shake the residue of that same dream, the one that clung like mist to the edges of his mind. Every night the symbols returned in another color, shifting, never clear, always just out of reach.
He hadn't even met the Shaykh yet. But the words still echoed:
"When the dreams come, ya Jamal… listen."
He used to scoff. He was a man of order, not omens. But now? Now, something in his chest moved without his permission. Like longing had taken a seat where logic used to be.
He rose, feet meeting the cold floor with a muted thud.
No use fighting it anymore. Sleep had fled. Again.
He reached for his prayer mat and folded it over his shoulder, each step to the door pulling him from one world to another.
At the threshold, he paused. Facing the Qibla, he whispered:
"Ya Allah… if this is from You, open it.
And if not… remove it from me, gently."
With that, He stepped into the predawn silence.
__________.
"The soul remembers what the mind denies. That is why some faces haunt you before you meet them."
-Old Mystic Proverb
___________.
beneath Nur Afiya's pale indigo sky, he moved through its silence like a prayer unfolding; his footsteps quiet, his heart awake.
He walked like prayer in motion.
At six foot three, he carried the kind of presence that arrived before he did, and lingered long after he was gone.
He didn't try to be seen. But somehow, the world had softened around him.
His shoulders, broad like protection.
His hands, strong but quiet. The kind that knew restraint, that had held pain and pulled through dhikr instead of destruction.
His jawline, graceful and sharp, brushed with a stubble he never let become a beard, as though he existed between what he could be and what he was still surrendering to.
His skin; the color of the earth after rain, bronze and warm, touched by sun, cooled by wudūʾ.
But it was his eyes; Allah, his eyes, that undid most hearts.
Dark. Deep. And evenly devoted.
They didn't just look, they remembered.
Like he was always halfway between this world and the one he left his soul in.
There were verses in those eyes.
Silence.
Solace.
Longing.
As if every blink was a whisper of something lost, or someone he was still waiting for.
Jamal didn't pursue. He didn't play.
He was a man who had been shattered and stitched by Divine love.
And it showed.
In the way he paused before speaking, or how his smile felt, like light breaking through storms.
Women didn't just notice him. They ached in his silence.
Because he reminds them of something they couldn't name… But had spent lifetimes praying for.
He didn't wear fragrance. But the air shifted when he passed, like even the wind knew it was brushing against a man touched by the sacred.
In a world that performed love, Jamal was the pause between verses, a love that prayed before it pursued.
The call to Fajr would soon rise over the rooftops, and Jamal, wrapped in stillness, was already on his way.
Not just toward the mosque.
But toward what and who he is yet to become.
_________.
And along the still streets of Nur Afiya, the scent of dew-wet earth mingled with blooming jasmine and faint traces of frankincense drifting from homes.
Nur Afiya: once a modest village, now stood at the edge of progress. Minarets rose alongside new steel-and-glass buildings. Satellite dishes stood tagged beside carved wooden balconies.
Yet, despite it's progress, the soul of the town still endured.
Children still laugh and run through alleyways barefooted.
Elders still sat under sycamores and sip tea long before the sun crowns the day.
__________.
As Jamal drew closer to the mosque, the adhan for Fajr rose gently into the still-blue sky, curling through the quiet alleys like incense. The street, just beginning to stir from its slumber, bore that hush only known to the early hours; sacred, serene and trembling with infinite possibility.
He passed familiar faces wrapped in routine: Uncle Rahman, coaxing his stubborn old donkey who refused to be hurried, muttering complaints as if both man and beast were in conversation with the morning.
Sister Rashida, broom in hand, swept the dust from her shopfront with a rhythm born of years, her movements tired but dignified, her lips forming silent dhikr as she worked. They exchanged nods, subtle and knowing, tied not by words but by the bond of shared dawns and faith.
Jamal murmured his salam to each as he entered beneath the mosque's ancient stone archway. The air inside was cool, like mercy itself. The quiet wrapped around him, thick with the scent of old prayer rugs and faint hints of rose water from the brass dispenser near the wudu area.
He stood in the saff(prayer line), heart bowed before limbs followed, the world outside dissolved into the quiet rhythm of takbir and tasbih. He moved through rukuʿ and sujood like a man pouring sorrow into the earth, leaving pieces of it behind with each prostration. His whispered duʿāʾs trembled in his chest, rising like smoke, fragile and aching.
When the prayer ended and the final taslim passed his lips, he remained still, heart not yet ready to leave that sacred stillness. It was then that the Imam approached, a gentle presence with eyes that had watched him grow from boy to man. His beard, white like salt, swayed slightly as he folded his hands behind his back.
"Storm brewing in your chest this morning, Jamal?" he asked, voice soft like the end of a long prayer.
Jamal exhaled, the corner of his mouth lifting just a little. "You always know."
The Imam chuckled, nodding. "Since you were a boy chasing pigeons outside the madrasa. What's weighing on you?"
Jamal hesitated, eyes fixed on the prayer carpet. "Had a strange dream. It's been sitting heavy on my chest for the past few weeks now... I've never had one like it before."
The Imam's face shifted, with understanding, not surprise. "Hmm... The kind that leaves silence behind when you open your eyes?"
Jamal nodded affirmatively.
"The Shaykh,"the Imam said slowly, "his door... you know it doesn't open every day. But this sounds like one of those matters that won't leave you be unless you knock."
Jamal's face fell slightly. "That's exactly it. I know the Shaykh's home isn't one to visit just like that, only on days Allah whispers to him. But this dream, Wallahi, it's not leaving me."
The Imam's expression softened, eyes distant. "Dreams like that... they come with permission, Jamal. Not from you, but from above. When the soul is summoned to witness something in the unseen, it is not a burden. It is a sign."
He placed a hand on Jamal's shoulder.
"Even if the door is closed today, the path will be open when Allah wills. And sometimes, the door is not wood, it's the turning of your own heart."
Jamal swallowed hard, emotion caught in his throat. "BarakAllahu feek, Shehu."
"Wa iyyakum. Patience, Jamal. When Allah sends a storm, it's often to wash something clean. Walk gently. Nur Afiya watches over those who listen."
.....
After the Imam turned to greet the elders who had been motioning to him from the corner, Jamal remained seated.
A moment longer.
The heaviness in his chest had softened. Not gone, but bearable.
Like a stone warmed by the sun after a long, cold night.
Eventually, he rose, his fingertips grazing the cool stone pillar as he left with a parting gesture, like one drawing water from a sacred spring.
He walked slowly, his steps hushed, heart still tethered to something beyond sight... but now, willing to follow its pull.
At the mosque's threshold, he paused.
Outside, the sun had risen higher, claiming more of the sky with gentle authority. Soft gold melted into pale blue, like brushstrokes on a living canvas.
He stepped into its warmth, and the morning breeze greeted him with the tenderness of an old friend.
Adjusting his mat over his shoulder, he felt the village stirring beneath his feet; the pulse of Nur Afiya's waking.
_________.
Nur Afiya in itself, is a place suspended between past and present, between the sacred and the shifting, where tradition and quiet progress intertwined like lovers' fingers.
The rhythmic clatter of wooden carts echoed on cobblestone, blending with the hum of a motorbike weaving through narrow alleys and wide, sunlit roads.
The scent of fresh flatbreads, warm and yeasty, rose from beneath trays on cloth-covered stalls.
Mint tea steamed beside smoky braziers, while jasmine and cardamom whispered their secrets into the breeze.
Jamal's steps merged with the morning's unfolding rhythm.
A group of boys darted past him, chasing a worn leather ball, laughter erupting like sparrows in flight.
"Usman!" Jamal called out, spotting his nephew mid-sprint.
The boy skidded to a halt, grinning. "Uncle Jamal!" he exclaimed in happiness "Are you coming to play?"
Jamal chuckled. "Not today, champion. Guard that goal with honor."
Around him, Nur Afiya breathed: women haggled gently over cloth and lentils, metal rang as a blacksmith shaped hot iron with the old discipline.
The scent of molasses and strong, gritty coffee drifted from a nearby café, newly opened, solar panels glinting on its rooftop.
Children marched toward the modest schoolhouse, backpacks bouncing, weaving between the stone homes of their grandparents.
A town in motion. Rooted, but reaching.
Yet Jamal felt... outside of it.
Not alienated, just distant.
As if watching through a thin veil, one only the heart could feel.
A quiet, deep longing lingered.
_______.
When he arrived at his home, a small, quiet place nestled in a shaded lane of Nur Afiya,he slid the key into the wooden door.
It sighed as it opened, as if sharing his weariness.
Silence greeted him. The sacred, heavy, quiet of absence.
His carpentry tools lay exactly where he left them: the mallet, the carving knives, the faithful old tape measure curled like a sleeping snake.
Every item a memory. Every silence, a companion.
No footsteps.
No laughter.
No warm voice trailing behind him on slippered feet.
Only solitude.
Most men his age sat at tables surrounded by family, their homes filled with the rustle of life, wives whose voices echoed down halls, children whose questions marked the rhythm of days.
But Jamal had chosen stillness.
Or maybe, stillness had chosen him.
Marriage proposals had come and gone like seasons, kind offers, beautiful souls. But none had stirred that knowing in his chest.
The one that whispered: wait.
Not out of pride.
Not from fear.
But faith.
Faith that the One who shapes destinies and hearts would not leave his match adrift in the wind.
---
He moved into the kitchen, its smallness comforting.
The familiar scent of ground millet and old wood welcomed him.
He brewed massa in silence, letting its bitter warmth anchor him, each sip steadying the tremble that still lingered in his chest.
The house was quiet, like it was listening too.
After a quick shower, he dressed slowly, with intention.
A clean white jallabiya slid over his skin like prayer cloth. Cool, simple, dignified.
At the mirror, a small bottle of sandalwood oil caught his eye. He dabbed a trace behind each ear, breathing in its grounding depth.
A small smile touched his lips.
private. Tired. But real.
"A troubled heart must also feed and toil," he murmured. "The soul walks, but the hands must still work."
He stepped back into the room, securing his satchel, folding his sleeves. Then paused, just for a breath.
He turned once more toward the inner chamber, glanced at the stillness he was leaving behind.
Locked the door gently.
And stepped out.
Back into Nur Afiya's awakening hum.
Chickens clucked and scratched at the soil.
A baby wailed, then quieted.
A kettle hissed open from a nearby courtyard.
But inside him, there was only silence.
Not empty. Just Waiting.
The dream still pulsed under his ribs.
Not fading. Not yet.
And somewhere beyond his reach, something stirred.
Not a memory. Not a fantasy.
But a call.
Soft. Steady.
---
As he walked toward the edge of town, tools in hand, the path ahead felt strangely weightless.
"They're not just dreams Jamal." the Shaykh had said once.
"They're soul-maps. If you're brave enough to read them."
He had laughed at the time. Scoffed, even.
But now?
Now, as the morning sun began its quiet climb and the call of labor waited just beyond the bend,
He began to wonder if the map had already begun to unfold.
And maybe, just maybe,
He wasn't walking to work.
He was walking through the pull.
Each step an echo, each breath a summons.
_______.
(A thread was tightening. Silent, unseen, ready to pull two fated souls into collision. And nothing would remain untouched.)