ADOPTING A COMPASSIONATE AND GENEROUS OUTLOOK, WILL CREATE A RIPPLE EFFECT OF POSITIVITY IN YOUR LIFE"
-Self Inspired-
_____________.
The coolness of the masjid floor grounded Aamina as she folded into her final sujood, her forehead pressed deep into the golden rug, her body trembling. Not from fatigue, but from the weight of what she could no longer name.
"Ya Allah..." her voice cracked against the silence. "Make it clear for me. Show me the truth before I lose myself in these dreams."
It was barely a whisper, but it spilled from her soul with such naked sincerity that even the air in the room seemed to still, as though the arches above leaned in to listen. Her fingers curled around the worn beads of her tasbih, moving slowly, not just to mark dhikr, but to count each uncertain moment that had passed since her arrival in Marhaba.
After prayer, She leaned back against the wall. Her breath slowing, her eyes fluttering shut. Her forehead still tingled from the rug. Her palms cold against her knees. She waited, aching for a dream to come. A sign. A vision. A voice.
But nothing came.
Only the silence. And then, slowly, that old restlessness, like a tide rising in the bones, wrapped itself around her.
She didn't mean to sleep. Not truly. She only meant to breathe. To surrender.
But as her body relaxed and her limbs curled gently toward themselves, her mind drifted unwillingly, backward.
back to that night she'd always tried to forget.
It began with the feel of his arms, the way they once wrapped around her shoulders after long days. The smell of worn leather and woodsmoke. His voice, low, coaxing, falsely tender.
"You're asking too much, Aamina. No man can live up to this dream of yours."
That voice had once made her laugh. Now it echoed like an accusation.
She remembered that night. The night he came home with eyes full of something feral. Anger pulsing beneath his skin. A storm barely caged behind clenched teeth.
"I've waited three years," he had said, pacing the room like a predator. "Three years, Aamina. What more do you want from me?"
She had stood her ground, quiet, steady, heart breaking in her throat. "We agreed. We would wait."
"I thought you'd change. That love would change you."
She had loved him. Deeply. More than she should have. But something... something she couldn't name, not even to herself, had always pulled her back from the edge. Even in the softest moments, when she wanted to surrender, some bone-deep instinct whispered: not him. Not yet. Not this way.
"You don't trust me," he hissed. "You're not even sure you're a virgin, are you? You probably wouldn't even know."
Those words had shattered something. The betrayal in them, sharp, personal, humiliating. left a gash so deep she hadn't spoken for days.
And now, in this house of worship, where the rugs smelled faintly of saffron and stone, she curled inward, small, trembling, unseen.
The pain wasn't sharp anymore. It was old. Smeared into the shape of silence. But it pulsed beneath her skin like an unfinished verse.
She turned on her side, cheek pressed to her scarf, lips barely moving.
"I tried to love him. I tried to choose him. But You never let me give myself."
She whispered, maybe to herself, maybe to her Lord:
"I said no because my soul said no. Even when my heart was too in love to understand."
Her chest rose, then fell.
"And I don't need to apologize for that."
For the first time in years, she allowed herself to revisit that night without flinching, without justifying, without folding the memory into some more polite version of itself.
It wasn't her fault he didn't wait.
It wasn't her flaw that she hadn't let him inside her body.
It was her gift.
And someone, someday, would see that. or perhaps it was all leading here she thought.
Not as resistance,
But as reverence.
Her breathing evened, her thoughts softened. The arches above her blurred, then disappeared.
And somewhere between sujood and slumber, between du'a and memory, Aamina finally drifted into the uneasy sleep, her soul aching in a language only the unseen could understand.
_________.
Meanwhile back in Nur Afiya, as the hours slipped by, the rhythm of the day's work began to calm Jamal's mind. The chisel biting into wood, the hum of the plane, each stroke softened the tightness in his chest.
"Love Is the light through which souls the soul recognizes itself in another. The thread, unseen yet unbreakable, binding hearts across distance and time."
To embody divine love, he knew he must shift from body to soul, from outward form, to inward reality.
The real journey was the soul's, and today, Jamal felt it's pull more than ever.
---
The scent of her cardamom arrived before she did; warm, familiar, and laced with intent.
Jamal didn't look up right away. The rhythm of his sanding slowed, then stilled. He reached for the cloth beside him, wiping his hands with quiet precision.
"Tayyibah," he murmured. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you're trying to earn Jannah through coffee."
Her laughter followed, soft and laced with mischief. "You say that like it's not a noble cause."
He turned. She stood at the doorway, cheeks flushed from the sun, balancing a tray beneath a cloth.
"Peace be upon you," she said, stepping in.
"And upon you peace," he replied, eyes softening. "Let's see what mercy came with today's delivery."
"Qahwa. Fresh. Grandma says if you keep missing lunch, she'll drag you by the collar. Hijab or not."
He smirked. "She always says that, may Allah lengthen her years."
"She misses you," Tayyibah added, placing the tray down. Her voice dipped. "We all do."
He poured a cup and took a sip, steam curling like old memories. "Hmm, How's your mother?"
"Improving, Alhamdulillah. But... some nights are still long. You know how that is."
He nodded, eyes distant. "Long nights. Heavy silences."
"You've always been better at those than anyone." she said with concern.
"Sometimes silence is safer than explaining what even I don't understand."
She studied him. "Or maybe silence is your shield when your heart won't stop bleeding."
His hands stilled. He met her gaze. "You think you want to enter this heart... but you don't know the rooms I've locked inside."
"Maybe I don't," she said. "But I've prayed in darkness too, Jamal. And I know that even locked rooms can be filled with light when Allah wills."
He looked at her. Something shifting in his expression, something worn but still alive.
"You always flirt like this?"
"Just with the ones whose silence speaks louder than their words."
A beat.
"You don't want what I carry, Tayyibah."
"You're not a burden," she replied gently. "You're a prayer not yet answered."
He smiled faintly, touched by something he couldn't name.
"Drink your qahwa," she said, stepping away. "Next time, come get it yourself."
The curtain swayed as she left.
The scent of her cardamom lingered long after. So did her words.
And the dream stirred again; unseen, but not unfelt.
"Sometimes, even hearts wrapped in grief long to be seen."
He sighed, turned back to his tools to get back to work.
But something in him had shifted.
Quietly. Irrevocably.
__________.
The soft knock-knock at the masjid's side door roused Aamina from her deep sleep. She blinked, groggy and disoriented, only to see the muezzin's kind face peeking through the archway.
"Ah, you're awake," he said, voice wrapped in warmth. "I saw you come in this morning for prayer, but didn't see you leave. Thought you'd disappeared into the walls."
He chuckled, "Didn't mean to miss Jumu'ah either, I imagine."
Her eyes widened. "Wait... I missed Jumu'ah?"
The muezzin chuckled, eyes crinkling beneath his silver brows. "You did more than miss it. You slept through it all, even the main mosques loud speaker couldn't stir you. If I hadn't seen you enter this morning, I'd have thought you were a jinn tucked behind the pillars."
She stood quickly, bowing slightly in embarrassment. "Forgive me, Uncle Fadil. I didn't mean to..."
He waved a gnarled hand, stepping closer, his voice softer now. "Child, don't apologize for the kind of sleep that's sent by the soul. Some dreams come not from fatigue, but from the One who speaks in silence."
Aamina swallowed hard, her eyes stinging for reasons she couldn't name.
He studied her a moment longer. "When a heart trembles like yours, it is either remembering or being remembered. Either way, it is blessed."
She lowered her gaze, moved. "JazakAllah khayran, Uncle."
"May Allah give you clarity before the weight of longing breaks your back," he murmured. "Now go. Wash your face before the street swallows this heat."
She nodded, smiled faintly, and made her way to the wudhu area. The water was cool, sharp, forgiving. She let it run down her face in handfuls, as if rinsing off layers of dream and shame, until her breath steadied.
When she stepped back into the street, the world seemed brighter, louder, more alive. Marhaba's sun was in full bloom, pressing golden light against the limestone walls. Voices echoed through archways. Market smoke curled upward in ribbons.
Aamina exhaled slowly, tying her scarf tighter.
She hadn't been home since dawn, yet her feet turned toward Aisha's shop, pulled by a heaviness her heart refused to carry alone any longer.
She barely made it two turns from the masjid when she saw him; the man that had always stalked her, leaning lazily against a sunlit archway, sleeves rolled up, a smile too smooth for this kind of heat.
"Still walking these streets like a spirit," he drawled, stepping forward.
Aamina didn't slow. "Still haunting them like a shadow, I see."
He laughed, falling into step beside her. "Your tongue's sharper than ever. You break hearts with that?"
She side-eyed him. "Only the stubborn ones that don't listen to 'no.'"
His grin faltered, just for a second. "Maybe I'm the kind that needs to hear it twice."
A pause.
She turned to him fully now, eyes steady. "Then may Allah open your ears."
His smile melted into something quieter, almost reverent. "And yours, your heart. You still haven't figured out why you're really here, have you?"
The words stopped her breath. Just for a blink.
She looked past him, to the road winding through Marhaba's heart. "I'm trying."
He tilted his head, softened. "Then I won't stand in the way."
He stepped aside. Just like that. No more games.
She continued down the lane, her pulse unsettled.
Moments later, laughter tugged her back to earth. Three barefoot children ran up to her, dust swirling around their ankles.
"Aunty Aamina!" the smallest beamed. "Will you tell us another story tonight?"
She knelt down, smoothing the boy's tangled curls. "InshaAllah. If the stars come early."
They squealed and ran off, chasing their own shadows.
Aamina smiled, something loosening in her chest.
By the time she reached Aisha's shop, the sun had edged westward. But the shutters were locked. A brass note hung crookedly on the door: "Gone for a while. Make dua for me."
"SubḥānAllāh..." she sighed, pressing her palm to her forehead. "Of course she'd be away today, I should've known."
She'd forgotten. Aisha had warned her. But grief made the mind a sieve.
Aamina stood there, suddenly unsure. The street bustled around her, but her own path blurred again.
Where to now?
She stood before the locked shop, as if it might open and answer. But it didn't. Only the wind moved, cool, scented, curling around her ankles with a scattering of rose petals.
"Balqis," she whispered suddenly.
Her name tasted like memory. Like sanctuary.
Balqis was an old friend of hers, despite their age gap, they were still very good friends. It's been long since she last visited her, today something pulled her towards her home, maybe, just maybe, solution awaits beneath.
The sky bruised with the coming of Maghrib. Lanterns flickered to life. Men shuffled home with tired feet, and a muezzin's voice floated from afar like a prayer wrapped in longing.
Aamina turned north, deeper into Marhaba, towards Balqis' home.
Every step drawing her closer to what fate held,
A fate written before her first breath.