"Love is the light by which the soul recognizes itself in another. The thread, unseen yet unbreakable, binds hearts across distance and time."
Far beyond the painted borders of their parent nation, tucked forty kilometers east, sat the sister city of Marhaba. A town that moved not only by sun and season but by memory. Its heritage breathed through moonlit wrestling matches and the rhythmic hum of trains that stitched its heart to the world. The rail was its spine. The old roads, its veins.
Though separated by wild forests and winding roads, both towns shared a bond older than even the borders drawn around them.
It's said that when the soul matures, the veil between realms thins. Dreams begin to teach. To pull. To prophesy.
And before fate had a name, Aamina was just a girl.
She wasn't the loudest, nor the most obedient, but something about her was rare; a softness with edges. Her skin, warm like date syrup in the sun. Her eyes, wide and often caught in wonder. She had a presence that lingered even after she'd gone, like the last note of a beautiful song. Yet, unknowingly to her, her soul had been doing the work: acts of love, moments of stillness, prayers whispered in secret. A silent intimacy with her Creator that the heavens had not forgotten.
They say love isn't always born in the eyes, but in the soul's quiet remembrance, a compass not pointing north or south, but toward a familiarity that transcends time.
This morning in Marhaba, the dream had returned after a week, and this time, more vivid.
Aamina left the house before the sky had fully blushed, slipping out through the garden gate. Her grandmother's voice trailed behind, calling softly, "Ya binti! At least take a bite before you fly away!"
Aamina turned mid-stride, walking backward now, scarf half-tied, grinning. "I'll eat when I find what I'm looking for, Nani!"
"You're always dreaming, binti!"
"Maybe this is more real than a dream," she called, vanishing down the alley.
Her sandals whispered over the waking earth. She passed the farmer's quiet window, his sleeping cat curled under a clay pot, and the smell of dough rose from ovens hidden in stone courtyards.
She wasn't hungry. She was drawn. Tugged by something older than logic, deeper than longing. This soul pull had been coming to her ever since, but today, something mysterious had pulled her out of the house and into the yet unknown.
She moved with the speed and precision of someone catching a flight.
When she reached the subway at the edge of Marhaba's main town, it was already stirring; its clean pillars, sleek benches, and glowing panels humming with life.
This was where she had seen the man in her dream. His back turned, shoulders cloaked, form blurred by distance but clear in essence. He hadn't faced her, but she had known him.
So she had rushed here, hoping to glimpse the same figure in the waking world.
Standing at the exact position from her dream, people rushed past like morning wind: women with trays on their heads, students biting into croissants, early lovers murmuring blessings at the train's mouth. A boy even nearly dropped a crate of pomegranates. But Aamina barely blinked.
Her focus remained.
For twenty long minutes she stood. Hands folded, gaze fixed. The spot where he had stood was now just air. But not empty. Something lingered. Something that watched her back.
Minutes passed like tides; pulling, receding, returning.
Still, she stood fixated. Looking at nothing. Yet everything.
She had felt him. Not in the flesh, but in the quiet ache of remembrance. As if the universe had etched him into the very Marhaba air.
After standing a little longer, she whispered, half-scolding herself, "This is foolishness, Aamina. How do you expect dream man to appear in your waking world?" But like a music rhythm, her stomach whispered what her heart wouldn't. 'Food.' With that, she turned toward the upper part of the subway.
"Hungry? Or did Mr. Right refuse to show up?"
A young boy standing behind a modest cart of golden rolls, steam rising from them like mist off a river, teased her.
"What Mr. Right?" she protested, turning toward the boy, who now gestured toward a sachet water seller.
"I won't act like I haven't noticed you standing there for what felt like ages," he said, helping the water seller balance her basket. "I thought maybe you lost your memory. Or saw a ghost." He smiled. "I was about to call for backup, but now I know. Mr. Right stood you up."
Aamina blinked, then replied, "Maybe you're right... or maybe not," brushing a strand of hair off her cheek. "But there are no Mr. Rights. Just mystery."
He laughed. "Mystery, huh? We see it every day here. Doesn't baffle us anymore. Just stop scaring us like you've seen a living ghost."
Aamina laughed too. "Who will save us from those who monitor us, but have no business with us? Only Allah." Then, making a pity face, she furrowed her brows. "Well, qadarAllah, I didn't find what I was searching for. But thanks for noticing. And yes, I'm hungry. Left home in a rush and didn't even grab a dime." She shook her head dramatically.
"Tragic," he said with mock seriousness, already handing her a roll. "A beauty like you shouldn't be starving at sunrise."
She smiled politely. "You flirt with all your customers?"
"Only the ones who look like they stepped out of a painting," he replied, smiling sheepishly.
But Aamina hesitated. "I don't take what I haven't paid for."
"Then consider it a debt of fate. Pay me with your smile."
Aamina laughed, soft and sincere. "That's dangerous, you know. Debts of fate are never light."
He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice like sharing a sacred truth. "Some souls cross paths just to feel remembered, even for a moment, right?."
Her laughter quieted. The line hit deeper than it should. She held his gaze a moment longer than polite.
Then, gently, she took the bread. "Thank you," she said sincerely. "But some debts... are better left unowed. Don't you think?"
He straightened and nodded with respect. "Come back tomorrow, then. Let me earn your appetite the right way."
After thanking the boy, she turned to leave, biting into the loaf as she walked. At the subway exit, she looked back. Not at the train. Not at the boy. Not at the crowd flowing like rivers.
But at that empty spot. Still humming. Still waiting.
Above ground, Marhaba had already awakened to the rhythm of morning.
But a part of her... was still dreaming.
---
As she turned down the main road, the life of the city unfolded around her in vivid strokes.
Marhaba was no ordinary town. It was a place where the earth itself seemed to bless its people. To her right, beyond the line of quiet cafés and artisan shops, the land opened into tidy rows of olive groves, their silvery leaves flickering in the rising light. Further out, the fertile plains unrolled like green velvet toward the distant hills, where vineyards climbed in gentle rhythm and orchards bent heavy with figs. Pomegranates split open in the warmth, spilling their scent into the breeze.
This was Marhaba's wealth; not gold, not oil, but land. Land that bore fruit with patience, that gave its best to those who remembered how to ask gently. What began as a humble village nestled between hills had grown into a thriving town. The soil had drawn traders first, then poets and pilgrims, then the quiet seekers, as well as those who came for beauty not written in brochures.
Visitors from far-off cities now wandered the olive trails, tasted honey drawn from sunlit hives, and stood in awe among the lavender fields that lit the hillsides every spring in their own adhan of soft purples.
Even the air felt different. Sweet, clean, like it remembered the duʿāʾs of those who came before.
With the wonderful visitors came growth: guesthouses in old stone, cultural centers that taught Marhaba's ancient irrigation secrets, workshops weaving tradition into art. The market now swelled with life, stalls overflowing with sun-dried fruits, handwoven rugs, and the famed Marhaba olive oil, now sold across countries in bottles sealed with gold labels.
Despite its development, Marhaba had not forgotten its roots and soul. The streets still echoed with neighbors calling one another by name. Children still raced through alleyways at dusk, their laughter folding into the call to prayer that floated freely across fields and rooftops, calling all things, both old and new. Back to the heart of the Divine.
At a corner, Aamina paused near a small fountain that gurgled softly in the light of morning. She watched as an elder passed a bundle of herbs to a boy, who grinned and darted toward the market square. These were the moments she loved, when beauty was not in the land alone, but in the rhythm of lives lived within it.
"Will you tell us a story again?" asked a voice from behind.
Aamina turned slightly to see three barefooted children standing behind her, eyes bright, hands full of mint leaves.
"Later, maybe," she said, smiling gently. "If you catch me after ʿAsr."
The smallest one frowned. "Promise?"
"Insha'Allah," she concluded.
"JazākAllahu Khayran, Aamina," the smallest one added as they ran off, giggling.
Aamina continued down the sun-washed street, her steps soft, yet unclear.
Aamina bint Khalid was not like many her age. At twenty-three, she carried a stillness that held fire beneath. Her skin, a warm bronze like roasted almonds, was sun-kissed but unbothered. Her eyes, deep mahogany rimmed in black, had a way of pausing people. Not only for beauty, but for the strange knowing they carried. A kind of listening. A witnessing.
She was tall, moved like water, unaware of her grace. Her hair, thick and dark beneath her scarf, seemed to remember stories she had not yet told. She was not flawless. Her temper rose when elders dismissed women's thoughts. She could be stubborn, especially with her grandmother. But she had been doing the soul's work, even if she never called it that.
Silent service.
Duʿāʾ under stars.
Forgiveness whispered in secret.
The kind of yearning that softened the veil between worlds.
That was why she was being guided now.
Even if she didn't yet know it.
With one final breath drawn from Marhaba's bustling morning, she turned toward the mosque that stood at the town's center, its white dome gleaming like a pearl against the sky. As she neared, the weight in her chest softened, as though the earth beneath her feet whispered: You're almost there.
The mosque courtyard was quiet, shaded by jacaranda trees and the low hum of Qurʾān. As she passed a woman arranging prayer mats, a bird flitted down to the ablution fountain.
"Salām ʿalaykum," came a warm voice.
She turned. "Uncle Fadil," she whispered tiredly.
The mosque's ladān stood in the doorway with a miswāk in hand and a smile carved from crescent moons. His beard was white as snowfall. His eyes, all mischief and mercy.
"You walk like you carry a secret," he said.
She chuckled. "Maybe I do."
"Come to join the circle today?" he asked curiously.
She shook her head. "Not today. Just need to be alone with Allah."
His expression softened. "Then you've come to the right place, ya binti. The side room at the back is quiet. I swept it myself this morning. Even the jinn said 'bismillah' and left."
She laughed and touched her chest. "JazākAllahu khayran."
"Also remember to make a duʿāʾ for my old knees," the ladān added as he watched her disappear into the ablution area.
"I always do," she said, smiling.
She stepped toward the wudūʾ (ablution) area, washing slowly, hands, mouth, face. Letting the cool water quiet the noise in her heart.
After the comforting wudūʾ, she went inside. The back room was just as he had said: quiet, cradled in soft light. The Arabic calligraphy on the walls danced like wind caught in ink. Earth-toned prayer rugs stretched before her like pages waiting to be read.
She adjusted her scarf, inhaled softly, and picked a gold prayer mat as the door clicked gently behind her.
Uncle Fadil still stood outside, watching her from the big window.
"This corner," she murmured, "feels closer."
"To Him?" he asked.
She blinked and nodded. "And to something I can't name yet."
He nodded too. "Then sit. Listen. The answers come when hearts are honest."
She spread the prayer mat and sat on it to make a short duʿāʾ, settling into the stillness of the room surrounded by silence.
Outside the arched window, Marhaba stirred with life; carts creaking, voices rising, the scent of spice and dust on the wind.
But within these quiet walls, time bowed low, breathless.
And in her; deep, tender, unresolved, something unnamed. kept rising.
She didn't know it yet, couldn't name the ache blooming beneath her ribs...
But every step she took today was pulling her closer, to the veiled unknown, to a fate written long before her first cry pierced this world.
Something awaited. Just beyond the veil.