The last echoes of the khutbah still hummed in Jamal's chest like the final beat of a duff. Men spilled out of the mosque in slow, unhurried waves; hands clasped, shoulders bumped, "Taqabbal Allah" passed like quiet blessings between friends. The warm, heady scent of oud and musk mingled with the dust that rose from their sandals. The minaret shimmered above, blanched by the noon sun, a silent witness.
Jamal stood a while on the steps, not quite ready to move. Something had shifted in him during the prayer, something too soft to name but too loud to ignore. That stillness again. That pull. As though the world, for a brief breath, had tilted and was pointing him somewhere.
A flurry of laughter jolted him back.
A group of boys darted across the open road beside the mosque, barefoot and wild, chasing a stitched-together ball made from old socks and dreams.
One of them veered off and skidded to a halt.
"Uncle Jamal!"
It was Usman, his nephew. cheeks flushed, breath heavy, eyes bright.
"Running from your homework again?" Jamal teased, stepping down with a faint smile.
Usman grinned, leaning on his knees. "No, wallahi, we just finished Jum'ah. Mama said I could play till Asr!"
Jamal ruffled his hair. "Just don't come home with another cracked ankle. Your mama will skin us both."
"Yes, sir!" And with that, Usman took off again, chasing the ball with the reckless joy only children are allowed.
Jamal watched them disappear down the dusty road. For a moment, he envied their simplicity, how easily they laughed. How freely they ran.
He turned, slipped into the smaller road that led past the back of Fatimah's house, and slowed his steps.
It wasn't the most direct way back to work.
But something tugged him that way.
And then, there she was.
Framed in her courtyard doorway like a forgotten poem, Fatimah. Her hijab drawn loose, the late sun catching faint gold in her eyes. She looked up just as he passed, and their eyes held, just a second longer than casual allowed.
"Jamal?" She called out. Her voice; surprised, soft.
He paused. "Fatimah. Salam."
"Wa alaikum salam," she said, stepping forward slightly. "You're passing by?"
"I was just… walking. Thought I might say salam."
She tilted her head, smiling lightly. "That's new."
He gave a faint chuckle. "I'm trying new things."
Fatimah opened her mouth in awe, "New things of course, good to know Jamal."
"And you?" Jamal asked curiously, "what's new?"
"I'm trying new things," she said with a small shrug, eyes soft.
Jamal's chuckle came low and effortless. "New things, huh? You mean like showing mercy to people you once threatened with a broomstick?"
Fatimah raised her brows, arms folding. "Jamal, I only did that once. And you were stealing mangoes."
He grinned, tilting his head. "So you admit it happened."
From behind them, the sound of hurried footsteps interrupted. A young boy, no older than ten, darted into the courtyard, shirt half-buttoned, holding a slingshot. His dusty cheeks flushed with excitement.
"Uncle Jamal!"
Jamal turned, kneeling slightly. "Jamalu Junior! You hunting lions with that thing?"
The boy giggled, then pointed. "Mama said you're supposed to fix her broken wardrobe. She keeps yelling at me for leaning on it."
Fatimah groaned, muttering, "This child will be the end of me."
"I keep forgetting," Jamal said, rising. "Lead the way, general."
They followed the boy into the shaded hallway, lit dimly by the soft spill of afternoon light through patterned windows. Inside her room, the old wooden wardrobe leaned slightly to one side, a tired sentinel that had seen better years.
Jamal took off his jallabiya, folding it neatly over a stool. His shirt clung lightly from the heat, the scent of sawdust and musk still on him.
Fatimah watched as he examined the joints, his hands moving with quiet certainty.
"You still remember how to fix things?" Fatimah asked amidst slight chuckle.
"I remember how to break them," he murmured. "Fixing came later."
She leaned on the doorframe, silent for a moment. "Do you ever hear from your sister?"
He paused, looked back at her. "Not often. She's... distant now. I think Nur Afiya became too loud for her."
"Funny," she said softly, "it got quieter after she left. I miss her."
Jamal's gaze softened, his hands working on the hinge. "She used to talk about you like you hung the stars. Her best friend. Her shadow. Her secret keeper."
"We were girls with too many dreams," she smiled, wistful. "Not enough time to hold them, I miss her tho."
"I do too, I hope she comes around for Nur Afiya day tomorrow" Jamal said while examing the last part of the wardrobe.
Fatimah turned towards the hallway "I don't think she will, wherever she is, may Allah (SWT) continue to protect her and us too."
The last screw clicked into place with a firm twist. Jamal stood, dusting his palms along his thighs before closing the wardrobe's creaking door with care. It shut smoother now, a small thing, but the kind that brought a quiet satisfaction.
Fatimah smiled from the hallway, her hands damp from rinsing lentils. "You've finally done it, carpenter."
"I aim to keep at least one promise every Jumu'ah," he said, brushing a wood shaving from his sleeve.
The young Jamal peeked out from behind the curtain, grinning. "You fix things better than Baba."
"Don't tell him that," Jamal replied, ruffling the boy's hair. "Or I'll be doing all his housework too."
They shared a short laugh before he turned back toward the door, slipping his jallabiya back over his head.
"Thank you," Fatimah said, soft now. "For today. And... for staying a little longer than usual."
Jamal nodded, something unreadable passing across his face. "Barakallahu feeki."
"Wa feek, Jamal. Don't be a stranger."
He stepped out into the waning afternoon, the hush of post-Asr lingering like incense. The street was quieter now. A low breeze tugged at his sleeve.
He walked slowly at first, the sunlight fractured across his path like forgotten verses.
" Three weeks."
"And I still haven't had no solution to this heaviness in my heart."
"Still haven't stood before the Shaykh."
He drew in a long breath, his thumb pressing lightly against the ring of his middle finger; a habit he'd picked up when restless.
"Ya Allah… make what I carry lighter. Let what You've written unfold with ease."
His steps stretched out as he passed the narrow path behind Fatimah's home, shoes scraping the dusty ground. And just as he turned the bend near the fig tree;
"Finally!" came a familiar voice, half rebuke, half relief.
Jamal looked up, and there was Yusuf, walking fast, eyes wide with the strange urgency of someone who had news and no time for pleasantries.
"I've looked for you everywhere; workshop, mosque, even the bakery."
Jamal lifted his brow, surprised but not entirely caught off guard. "You been searching for me, or chasing the wind?"
Yusuf stepped closer, almost catching his breath. "No games, Jamal. The Shaykh... he's been asking after you."
Jamal's heart stilled for half a second. Then:
"…Asking?"
Yusuf nodded. "He says that he's seen something. And he wants you to come."
Jamal's gaze lowered for a breath, the words settling into his ribs like something fated.
'Maintaining a positive and generous outlook creates a ripple effect of positivity in our lives.
And yet; why does the ripple always reach when your heart is most unsure of its stillness?'
He blinked once, then nodded.
"Alright," he said quietly. "Let's pass by the shop. I need to lock up."
Yusuf didn't press.
They turned toward the square, walking shoulder to shoulder. The sun leaned lower, shadows lengthening as if even time knew something was about to unfold.
And somewhere beneath the surface of his silence, Jamal was no longer sure if he was walking toward the Shaykh,
-or toward the turning point his dreams had been warning him about all along.
____________.
The shadows stretched longer now, threading between the low houses of Marhaba like old hands reaching for something half-remembered. Aamina walked with her head low, the hush before Maghrib settling across the town like a shawl of stillness. Her sandals brushed dust and dry leaves as she turned down a familiar alley where vines spilled lazily from cracked stone.
Balqis' house stood just where she remembered it; modest, weathered, warm. She knocked, gently. Then waited.
Nothing.
She sat on the worn bench beside the door, quiet. Her mind drifted, to the prayer she'd just offered, to the feeling that had followed her all day like a half-finished sentence. A dream lingering at the edge of wakefulness. A whisper that wouldn't name itself.
After about 30 minutes, Just as she began to rise, the door creaked open.
"Aamina?" Balqis blinked, tucking her scarf tighter. "Ya Allah... you've been sitting here?"
"I didn't want to knock twice."
"You should've banged the whole door down," Balqis laughed, pulling her in with a quick hug. "My brother just left. Came all the way from Nur Afiya."
Aamina's eyebrows rose. "That far?"
"Seven hours and a half, give or take. He brought word... and questions."
"From who?"
Balqis shrugged, already ushering her inside. "He didn't say the name outright. Just… 'the elder.' You know how they are in Nur Afiya. Everything wrapped in mystery and reverence."
Aamina stepped into the house, inhaling the scent of warm spice and prayer mats. "I didn't even know you had family there."
"Only on my father's side. We're not close-close. But when the Shaykh sends a message, even the clouds listen."
That name; the Shaykh, passed between them like incense. Neither reached for it.
"Sit," Balqis said, brushing past her. "You're not escaping tea."
"I wasn't planning to."
Moments later, she returned with a tray. Steam curled up from the cups, and the scent of cardamom filled the room like memory.
Aamina wrapped her hands around the ceramic, steadying her breath. "I didn't mean to show up like this."
Balqis smiled, soft but searching. "Then why did you?"
"I don't know," she said truthfully. "Since morning, I haven't gone home. I kept walking, like something was leading me. I told myself I was heading nowhere. But somehow… I ended up here."
"Here," Balqis echoed. "Or here?" She placed a hand lightly over Aamina's chest.
Aamina didn't answer.
The room quieted. Outside, the muezzin's voice began to rise. The call for maghrib; clear, aching, unhurried.
"You're trembling a little," Balqis murmured.
Aamina looked down at her hands. "It's not fear. It's like something inside is… beginning to move."
Balqis nodded slowly. "Then let it move. You're safe here."
And in that small room, while the sky deepened to dusk, two old friends sat between silence and tea, between memory and mystery. And something began to shift.
_____.
the warmth of cardamom and cloves wrapped around them as they prayed Maghrib together, their voices low, their silences softer. Afterwards, with two clay cups steaming between them, the real conversation began.
"I haven't been home since morning," Aamina admitted, fingers wrapped tightly around her cup. "I left for the subway… but I never boarded."
Balqis raised a brow. "You wandered for hours?"
"No," she said, shaking her head slowly. "I followed a pull. Something inside me… I don't know. It was heavy. Like if I ignored it any longer, it'd start screaming."
Balqis grew quiet, watching her closely now.
"I'm not here by accident," Aamina continued. "I need help, Balqis. Not from you. Don't panic. But… have you ever had a dream that stayed with you like a bruise?"
Balqis softened, but said nothing.
"I see him," Aamina whispered. "Not a man I know. Not really. But… his presence, it follows me. Sometimes I wake up crying. Sometimes I wake up… feeling his presence around me, and not knowing why, it's been coming for years but recently, it's become more intense."
Balqis inhaled deeply. "Aamina… if I told you I had a solution to this twisted dream of yours, I'd be lying. No wonder it's weighing you down like this."
She hesitated, then added, "But... maybe my uncle can help. He's a spiritual leader and a Shaykh in Nur Afiya. My brother just came from there."
Aamina blinked. "Nur Afiya? That's hours away."
"Seven, if the roads are merciful." She leaned in. "But when he opens his door, people travel from far. Not because he answers questions. But because something in his presence clears fog."
Aamina was silent.
Balqis continued, "He's not seeing seekers now. But when he does… I can ask my brother to let me know."
Aamina nodded slowly. "Tell him. But don't tell him about me. Just… tell me when the time is right."
They talked for another hour. Laughter returned in pieces. Old stories filled the room. But the undercurrent of that dream, of what it might be leading to, never fully left Aamina's eyes.
_______.
Balqis reached for Aamina's hand as they stood by the door. The room behind them was dim now, lit only by the soft glow of the hallway lamp. The clay cups sat empty, the last of the tea cooling in silence.
"I'll speak to my brother tomorrow," Balqis said, her voice gentler now, touched with something sacred. "And I won't say a word about you. Just... wait with ease, Aamina. Not every answer comes loud."
Aamina gave a tired smile. "Even a whisper would be a mercy."
"You've carried this long enough. Let someone else hold part of it now."
A moment passed. Then Aamina pulled her into a brief embrace; tight, familiar, almost like the way she used to when they were girls trying to grow into women too fast.
"Thank you," she whispered. "Not just for the Shaykh. For seeing me tonight."
Balqis nodded. "Always."
Outside, the call for 'Isha rolled through the town like a sigh from the unseen. Lights flickered on across Marhaba. Doors clicked shut. The day was breathing its last.
Aamina stepped into the street, pulling her shawl tighter around her shoulders. The wind had cooled. Her feet moved on their own, the stone path beneath her worn with memory.
She didn't look back. Not because there was nothing behind her, but because what lay ahead now shimmered with meaning.
The Shaykh.
Nur Afiya.
Seven hours away, but suddenly closer than ever.
Maybe, just maybe, the road would open. Maybe the ache inside her, the dream, the nameless pull… would find its home.
She walked beneath the stars, whispering a silent alhamdulillah.
Not because she had answers.
But because now, finally, she had direction.