The room was dark and quiet, yet sleep refused to hold me. I opened my eyes and turned toward the digital clock on the bedside table.
4:00 AM.
The world was still sleeping—but I wasn't.
Just as I sat up, the air trembled with the soft, melodic call of the Adhan of Fajr, echoing through the open window like a whisper from another world. My heart clenched at the sound. It was the first morning I'd hear the Adhan without my mother by my side.
Tears pricked at my eyes.
I slipped off the blanket and rose silently from the bed. Each step felt heavy, like walking through memory. I walked to the bathroom, turned on the tap, and began to perform wudu—my mother's voice guiding me in my head, just like she used to.
"Hija, always start with intention."
"Wash your hands, rinse your mouth… the heart must be clean too, not just the limbs."
I dried my hands slowly. Then I laid my prayer mat down and faced the Qibla.
As I raised my hands to begin Salah, the weight of my grief overtook me.
By the time I finished Fajr, my cheeks were soaked. I cupped my hands in du'a, whispering through tears
"Ya Allah… forgive my mother. Grant her Jannah. Make her grave wide and filled with light. Reunite me with her… when it is my time."
My voice cracked, and I couldn't hold it anymore. I let myself cry, not like a child—but like a woman who had just buried the only person who knew every part of her soul.
The clock struck 6:00 AM when I stood in the kitchen, preparing something simple—eggs, rice, and tea. I wasn't hungry, but I needed strength.
As the sun rose and colored the skies in warm gold, I began to pack my things slowly. Today was the day.
I took the envelope again, the one from my mother. Inside it was a name that had been looping in my thoughts like a haunting echo:
Madrasah Al-Nahda.
Behruz Samandari Al-Mirzani.
The man I was destined—apparently—to marry.
But right now, I didn't want answers from him. I just wanted to see the place where my mother had laid her dreams for me.
By 7:00 AM, Uncle Malik was already waiting outside with the car.
As I stepped in, clutching my suitcase and my thoughts, I looked at him through the rearview mirror. He seemed nervous, but he hid it behind forced smiles.
"Uncle," I asked softly, "have you been to this school before?"
He nodded slowly. "Yes, I have. Years ago, with your mother. She respected that place."
I hesitated, then asked, "What about… him? The man—Behruz."
He didn't answer right away. His hands tightened on the steering wheel.
"Uncle?"
Finally, he sighed. "It's better if you ask your questions directly to him, hija. Some things… they're not mine to explain."
That only made my curiosity grow deeper—but I didn't push. I stared out the window as buildings faded into farmlands, then forests, until everything was just green and sky.
Flight Reminder – Boarding Gate Opens in 20 minutes.
I looked at the slip of a flight itinerary my mother had also placed in the envelope. Manila to Davao. That was part of the journey. The real destination was still ahead
Hours later, after checking in and boarding, the airplane lifted above the clouds. I sat quietly, my jacket zipped up, the envelope pressed against my chest under layers of fabric.
Was this what destiny felt like? Like being pulled toward something you didn't choose… but somehow knew was waiting?
By the time I landed in Davao, I felt the fatigue of both travel and emotion. The humid air kissed my face as I stepped out of the terminal with my suitcase dragging behind me.
Then I saw her.
A girl—probably my age—stood near the exit. She wore a white hijab, neatly pinned, and a long navy-blue abaya with a school emblem embroidered on the chest. She looked like peace personified. A little nervous, maybe, but kind.
When our eyes met, she smiled brightly and approached.
"Assalamu Alaikum… are you Jamila Zarifeh bint Qadriyah?"
I blinked, then smiled back faintly. "Wa Alaikum Salaam. Yes… I am."
Alhamdulillah.
Her presence somehow made the chaos in my chest slow down.
She reached for my suitcase. "I'm Aisha, second-year student. I was told to come welcome you. Come—van is waiting."
We walked side by side, and as we climbed into the van, I looked at her curiously.
"Is that… the school uniform?" I asked.
She nodded, giggling a little. "Yes! You'll have one too, soon."
I raised an eyebrow. "You sound sure."
"Because everyone says your mom used to study there. The teachers are excited. You'll feel it when we arrive. It's like… a second home for souls that don't know where they belong."
I stared at her, surprised by the poetry in her words. Then I glanced at the landscape rolling past the window. Everything was unfamiliar.
And yet—
Somehow—
It felt like something was calling me home.
As I stepped out from the van , I was instantly greeted by the fresh scent of the air. Peaceful. Clean. Calm. It felt like I had entered a different world. Aisha quickly followed behind, carrying one of my suitcases while I clutched the bag slung over my shoulder. We walked silently along a paved path that curved between small buildings and flowering plants lined neatly along the corridors.
As we approached the dormitory area, I noticed several students standing by the hallway. Some were holding Qur'ans, others looked like they had just woken up—dressed in white and navy blue uniforms with hijabs, all girls.
I stopped briefly.
I wasn't sure if it was from nerves or from the weight of so many eyes on me.
I could hear whispers.
"Is that her?"
"The daughter of Sister Amirah?"
"She's pretty…"
A few of them approached and greeted me.
"Assalamu Alaikum," one student said with a smile.
I returned a faint smile. "Wa Alaikum Salaam," I replied softly.
But not everyone came forward. Some just stood there silently watching me—as if they were assessing every step I took. And that's when the awkward feeling settled in. I felt like a display, something new and strange that people didn't quite know what to make of.
Aisha must've sensed my discomfort because she quickened her pace.
"Don't mind them, Jamila," she whispered as she unlocked the gate of a small house by the dormitory. "They're always like that when someone new arrives—especially someone with… a special background."
"Special?" I asked, confused.
She smiled. "Well… you're the daughter of one of the most beloved students who ever studied here."
I didn't know how to feel about that.
How can you be "special" when you feel so completely out of place?
When we entered the house where I'd be staying, I let out a slow breath.
It was small but neat. A bed, a study table, a little wardrobe, and a cozy prayer corner with a prayer mat already laid out and a Qur'an beside it. Bright, warm, and smelling faintly of soap and wood.
Aisha set down my suitcase and looked at me. "Here you go. You'll rest here for now. Later, you'll meet the family of Ustad Yusuf and most Importantly Ustadz Behruz" she chuckled
Sounds so weird but I managed to I nodded and gave her a small smile. "Thank you, Aisha."
"Anytime. I'm just next door, I'll go ahead now Because I have a class later asalamualaikum" she said with a wink before quickly stepping out.
"waalaikumusalam" I responded
I was alone again.
And that's when the weight I had been carrying returned.
The house was quiet, but my mind was loud. I sank onto the bed, trying not to cry again. I didn't know anyone. My mother was gone. And now, I was expected to fulfill an agreement I barely understood.
I touched the envelope still tucked inside my bag.
A will.
A name.
And a future that seemed to have been written for me before I even had a say.
After I unpacked and settled a bit in my small room, I felt this unshakable tug in my chest—a restlessness I couldn't ignore. Maybe it was grief. Maybe it was longing. Or maybe I just needed to feel closer to her... to Umi.
So I stepped outside, wrapping my shawl tightly over my hair down to my shoulder. The sun was high, and the sky was as clear as glass. A gentle wind kissed my face as I began to walk, unsure where my feet were even taking me. I only knew one thing: I wanted to see the school—the place where my mother once studied, once laughed, once dreamed.
I wandered through the stone paths, observing every corner. I passed by classrooms where students were just being dismissed. Their laughter was light and unburdened. Some of them ran toward their dorms, playfully racing each other like children without care. It made me smile for a moment—just a small curl of my lips. How long had it been since I smiled like that?
The campus was much larger than I had expected. Clean. Serene. Birds chirped above. Even the trees seemed to stand in stillness. There was something sacred about this place—like it was untouched by the noise of the outside world.
And without realizing it, my steps brought me somewhere different. Somewhere quiet.
I found myself standing in front of a mosque.
Not just any mosque—it was beautiful. The marble steps gleamed in the sunlight, and the intricate blue patterns around the arch glistened as if they were made of glass. Arabic calligraphy curved gracefully across the top of the entrance. It stood with quiet majesty, dignified and still.
Then I heard it.
A man's voice—calm, low, and steady—reciting Qur'an from within.
My heart stopped for a second.
The melody of the verses echoed from the inside, and it was unlike anything I had ever heard. It wasn't just beautiful—it was heartfelt. Every word carried emotion, reverence, weight. It felt as if the walls themselves were listening.
I don't know why, but I leaned forward slightly, wanting to hear more. Just a little closer.
But then—my foot slipped against the edge of a raised stone.
"Ah!" I gasped quietly, stumbling. I didn't fall, but the sound escaped before I could stop it.
Silence followed.
Then a voice from inside called out, deep and calm but alert.
"Is someone there?"
I froze.
Ya Allah… I held my breath. I saw the shadow of someone moving inside—tall, steady, nearing the entrance.
Panic rose in my chest. I wasn't supposed to be here. I didn't even know what I was doing. I turned and ran, the sound of my slippers echoing against the stone.
I didn't look back.
All I knew was that I needed to get away—before he saw my face. Before I embarrassed myself any further.
As I reached the path back to the dormitory, my heart was still racing. Not from fear. But from something else.
Who was that?
That voice… that recitation…
It lingered in my ears like a haunting melody. For a moment, I forgot my pain. I forgot I was grieving. For a moment, I just stood there—captivated.
And somehow, deep inside me, something had shifted.
Behruz's Point of View
The midday sun filtered softly through the mosque's stained-glass windows as I recited the verses of Surah Al-Baqarah. The quiet of the masjid was something I'd always treasured—a space where thoughts faded, and only the voice of the Qur'an remained.
I had just finished the final verse of the page when I thought I heard something.
A soft gasp.
It was quick—barely audible—but enough to disrupt the stillness.
I paused.
"Is someone there?" I called out, lowering my tone.
There was no response.
But then I saw it—a flicker of movement near the doorway, and the shadow of someone retreating. Then the sound of hurried footsteps. I stood up instinctively, about to step out and see who it was.
But whoever it was… they were gone.
I stood silently in the entrance for a few seconds, scanning the corridor outside. Nothing. Just the gentle sway of tree branches and the distant chatter of students returning to their dorms.
Strange.
I returned to the prayer mat, but my thoughts were no longer focused. My heart, which moments ago was absorbed in the rhythm of the Qur'an, now wrestled with curiosity.
Someone was there.
And somehow… it didn't feel like just anyone.
Later that afternoon, as the sun began to lean westward, I sat with my father, Ustadz Yusuf, on the terrace outside our home. We often took our tea together in the afternoons—a quiet moment before the responsibilities of the evening returned.
"Baba," I said, stirring the tea gently, "you've been quiet since last night."
He looked up at me and smiled faintly. "My son," he began, "do you remember Sister Amirah?"
I nodded slowly. "Your old student?"
"Yes. One of the brightest. Strong-willed. Faithful. She once told me that if anything ever happened to her, she would entrust her only daughter to us."
I paused, unsure where this was going.
"She passed away," Baba said gently. "Just recently."
The news struck me unexpectedly. I had never met Sister Amirah, but I had heard enough about her to respect her deeply. "Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi raji'un," I whispered. "May Allah grant her the highest level of Jannah."
"Ameen," my father replied. "Her daughter is here now."
My eyes narrowed slightly. "Already?"
"She arrived today. Her name is Jamila."
And suddenly, everything inside me clicked.
The shadow.
The soft voice.
The hurried footsteps at the mosque.
It must've been… her.
"She's young," Baba continued, "but she's carrying a heavy burden. Her mother left something for her—a will… and a promise."
He sipped his tea before speaking again, slowly, as if measuring every word.
"Part of that promise… was that she would study here. And if Allah wills, she would marry into a family that would take care of her. That was Amirah's final wish."
I looked at him, unsure whether I was misunderstanding him… or if he was gently confirming what I suspected.
"You made that promise… to take care of her?" I asked.
"I did," he said without hesitation.
Silence settled between us. A soft breeze passed through, brushing the tips of the leaves above.
Jamila.
The name now echoed in my mind. I hadn't even seen her face, but already, her presence was stirring something unfamiliar inside me.
Who was this girl who carried her mother's legacy?
And if the future truly tied us together… was I ready to fulfill such a vow?
Jamila's Point of View
The sun had barely dipped beneath the trees when Aisha came knocking gently at my door.
"Sister Jamila," she said softly, peeking in, "Ustadz Yusuf is inviting you for dinner tonight… at their home."
My heart skipped.
Dinner?
I hadn't even seen him yet. The head of the madrasah. The man my mother trusted. And if what I read in her letter was true—he was also the father of the man… I was supposedly meant to marry.
I straightened up nervously. "What time?"
"After Maghrib," Aisha smiled. "You have time to rest and freshen up. I'll come back for you later."
Maghrib came quickly. I found myself standing in front of the mirror, adjusting the soft folds of my light gray hijab, trying to calm the storm in my chest. I didn't know what to expect.
I didn't know what to feel.
Part of me wanted to cry again—because Umi should've been here. She should've been the one walking with me, introducing me, standing at my side.
Instead, I had her memory.
And her promise.
The thought made my throat tighten.
When Aisha returned, I followed her through the winding paths lit by hanging lanterns until we reached a quiet house nestled in a corner of the compound. It looked modest from the outside—warm, welcoming, with a scent of spices drifting through the air.
The door opened before we could knock.
A tall man, with a kind face lined by wisdom, stood there. He had a white turban around his head, his eyes gentle but sharp with depth. I recognized him instantly from the few old photos my mother kept hidden in her Qur'an case.
"Ustadz Yusuf," I whispered, placing my hand over my chest in respect.
He gave a small smile and stepped forward. "Jamila, anak Come in, hija."
I entered quietly, and the moment I stepped inside, I felt it—that strange mix of grief and comfort, like I was walking into something sacred… something long prepared for.
There was a soft murmur of voices in the next room.
As I stepped into the dining area, my eyes caught the figure of a young man sitting at the end of the table. He stood when he saw me. Tall, composed, his features sharp but not cold—like he carried the weight of responsibility in every breath. His eyes met mine, and for a second, I forgot how to breathe.
It was him.
The voice from the mosque.
Behruz.
He offered a polite nod. "Assalamu Alaikum."
"Wa Alaikumussalam," I answered, my voice barely audible.
Ustadz Yusuf motioned for me to sit beside his wife, a graceful woman who welcomed me with a warm hug. The table was set beautifully—rice, lamb stew, roasted vegetables, fresh dates, and saffron tea. It felt almost ceremonial.
As we began to eat, the conversation slowly opened.
"Your mother," Ustadz Yusuf began after a moment of silence, "was a woman of deep strength. When she came here all those years ago, she carried pain… but she never let it define her. She poured all her love into learning—into faith. Into raising you."
I looked down, blinking rapidly, trying to stop the tears from forming.
"She came back to us years later," he continued, "not as a student—but as a mother. She asked me… no, she made me promise that if something happened to her, we would be the ones to protect you."
The words pierced through me.
"She loved you fiercely, Jamila," his wife added, gently touching my hand.
I nodded. "I know," I whispered. "She… she left a letter. She told me about you. About this school. About…"
I paused. My gaze flickered—accidentally—toward Behruz.
He was quiet, but I could feel the tension in the air. He hadn't said much. Only observed. Listened.
Then Ustadz Yusuf placed his spoon down, his tone more serious. "She left you with a condition. We honor it not as a demand, but as a part of her trust. That you would learn here. Grow. And if Allah wills… and your heart allows… become part of this family."
Silence.
Behruz finally looked up, his voice deep, calm.
"We won't force what was written," he said, almost as if reassuring me. "But I will honor what your mother asked. I will honor you… however you choose."
His words hit me harder than I expected. They weren't romantic. They weren't dramatic.
They were true.
After dinner, Ustadz Yusuf brought out a small velvet pouch. Inside was my mother's old tasbih. I took it with trembling hands.
"She wanted you to have this on your first night here."
And in that moment, I couldn't hold the tears anymore.
They didn't rush down like waves—no. They slipped quietly, like a gentle surrender. Grief, gratitude, fear… all folding into a single breath.
I wasn't just a stranger anymore.
I was her daughter.
And this… was the beginning of something much deeper than I had imagined.
Behruz's Point of View
The house had quieted down. The plates were washed, the leftover food carefully packed away. The scent of cardamom and roasted lamb still lingered faintly in the air.
But my thoughts… they hadn't settled.
They were still with her.
Jamila.
The girl who walked through the door like a memory come alive—familiar yet foreign, fragile yet composed. When she entered earlier, I had seen her hesitate. Not just from nerves, but from something deeper.
Loss.
It was written in her eyes—the kind of grief that doesn't scream, but trembles in silence.
And somehow, I recognized it.
I had seen that same expression before. In students who lost parents. In brothers who lost comrades. In my own mother, years ago, when she buried her sister without warning.
But with Jamila… it struck differently.
She carried that grief with grace. She didn't allow it to consume her, even though I could sense it threatening to.
I remembered the way she avoided my gaze at first. The way her voice shook when she answered "Wa Alaikumussalam."
So polite. So careful.
I had expected resentment. Or discomfort. After all, she was a stranger in a land she didn't grow up in. Thrown into an arrangement she didn't choose. Pressured by a mother's final will, left with conditions instead of closure.
But there was something else.
Strength.
And it intrigued me more than I wanted to admit.
Later that night, after everyone had gone to bed, I stepped into the courtyard. The moon was high. The stars scattered like they were whispering secrets. I leaned against the stone wall, hands tucked into my sleeves, breathing in the stillness.
I tried to remember what I was doing before Jamila came.
Routine. Class. Salah. Qur'an. Teaching younger students. Planning for the end-of-year da'wah camp. My life had order, discipline, intention.
But now...
There was a subtle shift in the air.
And it was her presence that stirred it.
I wasn't in love. Not yet. That would be foolish. We were still strangers.
But I was... curious. Deeply.
I wanted to know what made her heart break and still beat with resilience. I wanted to know what kind of conversations she had with her mother at night. What dua she whispered after her tears dried on the prayer mat.
I wanted to know if she truly believed she could live in this world—the world of Qur'an, faith —or if she was merely obeying the last command of someone she loved.
And then came the thought that I tried to push away all day…
"What if this is the Qadar of Allah?"
"What if this isn't just an arrangement, but a path—meant for both of us to walk?"
I wasn't a romantic. I didn't write poems. I didn't daydream.
But my heart… it wasn't still tonight.
I sat on the Musalla and opened the Qur'an, to calm my thoughts. My fingers stopped on a verse:
"Perhaps you hate a thing and it is good for you. And perhaps you love a thing and it is bad for you. And Allah knows, while you do not know."
(Surah Al-Baqarah, 2:216)
I closed my eyes and let the verse sink into my soul.
Maybe Jamila didn't want this. Maybe she hated being here. Maybe she didn't understand why her mother would entrust her to strangers with a condition of marriage, of study, of sacrifice.
But maybe… this pain was also a beginning.
Not just for her.
For me too.
And if Allah had indeed written our names next to each other… then I needed to prepare not just to meet her—but to deserve her.
Even if it meant waiting.
Even if it meant silence.
Even if it meant watching her heal before I ever got the chance to say what was stirring inside my heart.
night was heavy with silence, yet my mind refused to rest.
JAMILA'S POV
The sun was gently stretching over the horizon when I walked across the courtyard toward the main academic hall. The scent of morning dew lingered on the stone path, and the air was cool, almost sacred. My abaya swayed with each step, the hem of it brushing over the edges of the grass.
It was my first day of formal classes. I should've been nervous—but oddly, I felt calm. Perhaps it was the barakah of the place. Or maybe it was the du'a I made earlier during Fajr, asking Allah to give me strength and clarity.
Little did I know, I was walking into something that would shake the foundations of my heart.
I sat down quietly in the third-period classroom—"Hadith & Qur'an Comprehension." The room was wide and open, with large windows that let in golden light. The other girls took their places, some chatting, others already reviewing their notes.
The door opened—and in walked someone I wasn't prepared to see.
Behruz.
My heart skipped.
He looked... different. Not like the one I had seen at dinner or caught a glimpse of at the masjid. No, this was a man in his element. His presence carried weight—calm, composed, but deeply centered. His thobe was spotless, his kufi perfectly in place, and in his hand he held a worn copy of Sahih al-Bukhari.
"Assalamu Alaikum wa Rahmatullahi wa Barakatuh," he greeted, his voice clear.
"Wa Alaikum Salaam wa Rahmatullah," the students responded.
"I am Ustadh Behruz Samandari Al-Mirzani. Today, we begin a sacred journey together. This is not just a subject. This is the heart of Islam—the preserved words and practices of our beloved Prophet ﷺ."
He paused, letting that settle in.
"If you open your hearts to it, this will not only change your mind—but your life."
His words held weight. The classroom shifted to full attention.
He began with a hadith that even I, with limited formal training, recognized. But hearing it in his voice, in this setting, it hit differently.
He recited in Arabic first:
عَنْ أَبِي هُرَيْرَةَ، أَنَّ رَسُولَ اللَّهِ ﷺ قَالَ:
"الْمُؤْمِنُ الْقَوِيُّ خَيْرٌ وَأَحَبُّ إِلَى اللَّهِ مِنَ الْمُؤْمِنِ الضَّعِيفِ، وَفِي كُلٍّ خَيْرٌ..."
(Sahih Muslim, Hadith 2664)
"The strong believer is better and more beloved to Allah than the weak believer, while there is good in both…"
He looked up.
"The word qawiyy—strong—here doesn't refer only to physical strength. What other kinds of strength could this hadith be implying?"
He walked slowly in front of us. Then stopped.
And turned to me.
"Miss Jamila," he said. Calm. Neutral. Yet it made my heart race. "Would you like to try answering?"
I blinked. My classmates turned to glance at me. I could almost feel their eyes. The pounding of my heartbeat was deafening in my ears.
But I nodded.
"Yes, Ustadh."
My voice came out soft—but steady.
"In this hadith," I began, "the Prophet ﷺ is teaching us that Allah loves those who are strong in faith. Not just physically strong. But those who are strong in their trust in Allah, in their ability to be patient, to persevere. A strong believer is someone who keeps making salah even when her heart is broken… someone who keeps saying Alhamdulillah even in loss."
I took a breath.
"This hadith reminds me of my mother. She never gave up, even when she was alone. Even when others abandoned her, she turned to Allah. That… is strength."
The room was silent.
Then I heard someone whisper behind me, "SubhanAllah..." followed by nods of agreement.
Even Behruz—though his expression didn't change—paused just a second longer than usual.
"Very well said," he finally replied. "That is indeed the essence of this hadith. May Allah strengthen you further, Jamila."
"Ameen," several students echoed around the room.
At that moment, something shifted inside me.
I had spent so much of my life surviving—grieving, aching, questioning why Allah took my mother so soon.
But here, in this room, speaking of sabr, of iman, of a strength that transcends hardship—I felt... seen. Not by the people around me.
By Allah.
This was where I was meant to be.
After class, a few students came up to me. One girl said she was inspired by my answer. Another asked if I had studied before. I simply smiled, unsure how to explain that the knowledge I carried wasn't just from books—it was from life. From pain. From my mother's unshakable strength.
As I walked down the corridor, my thoughts were buzzing—not just with notes and lessons, but with something else.
Behruz.
I wasn't sure what this strange connection meant. But I knew one thing—our paths weren't done crossing yet.
BEHRUZ POV
The classroom emptied slowly after our Hadith session. Some students lingered to ask clarifying questions, others chatted quietly while packing up their books. But I remained still—seated behind my desk, eyes fixed on the door Jamila had just walked through.
That answer.
Her voice was soft, but her words carried a strength I rarely heard from students on their first day. It wasn't just knowledge—it was lived experience. Her understanding of the hadith had depth, like someone who had truly tasted loss… and still chose to submit.
"The strong believer… even when her heart is broken."
Those words echoed in my mind as if they were spoken directly to me.
I closed the worn pages of Sahih al-Bukhari and leaned back slightly; hands folded in my lap. My father's voice from last night came back to me—his quiet but certain tone as he reminded me of the promise he once made to Jamila's mother.
Amanah.
An entrusted soul.
Back then, I was young—still busy memorizing books, blind to anything outside the world of scholarship and worship. I remembered vaguely the visits of Sister Umi, how she would sit with my mother, talk to my father about her dreams for her daughter. And now that daughter stood before me, unknowingly walking straight into the legacy her mother fought to preserve.
Just then, I heard footsteps.
"Behruz," said Ustadh Harun, my longtime colleague, a man whose beard had gone mostly white but whose passion for Islamic teaching burned as brightly as ever.
"Assalamu Alaikum," I greeted him.
"Wa Alaikum Salaam," he returned, walking over to lean against my desk casually. "I heard you had a very interesting student today."
I raised a brow. "News travels fast."
He smirked. "We're teachers. We notice everything."
He folded his arms, growing serious.
"She's… unique," he said. "Her mother was one of our strongest students. When she passed, it struck many of us here deeply. And now… Jamila walks these halls. It's as if sent sister Amirah her to finish what she couldn't."
I nodded. "She carries that strength. It's in her speech. In the way she reflects on faith."
"And maybe," Harun added, giving me a pointed look, "she was sent here to do more than study."
I frowned. "What are you implying?"
He only smiled. "We all know about the will. About your father's promise to Sister Umi."
My chest tightened.
"Yes, I know."
"So?" Harun asked. "How do you feel about that now? After today?"
I was quiet for a moment.
I hadn't truly allowed myself to think about Jamila like that—not yet. But seeing her today, not just her presence but her heart… it stirred something I didn't know I was still capable of feeling.
"She's… focused," I said carefully. "I don't want her to be burdened by expectations she doesn't know exist yet. Let her study. Let her grow."
Harun raised an eyebrow. "And what about you? Can you separate yourself from what you were promised to fulfill?"
I didn't answer. I wasn't sure I could.
That night, I stayed longer in the masjid. I read from the Qur'an, my voice echoing softly into the corners of the prayer hall. But my heart wasn't fully in the words—I was distracted. I kept thinking of her answer, her pain, her sincerity.
"Even when others abandoned her, she turned to Allah…"
What kind of heart did her mother raise?
And could I truly be the one destined to protect it?
Later that night, I passed through the kitchen to drink water, still unable to sleep. That's when I saw Aisha, my younger sister, grinning at her phone.
"What are you smiling about?" I asked.
She jolted. "You scared me!"
"Sorry. But you look like you're chatting with an angel."
Her cheeks flushed. "It's… it's Jamila."
I raised an eyebrow. "Jamila?"
"She's so kind, Behruz. And funny too. We've been talking about school and… other things." Her grin widened mischievously.
"Other things?"
She took a deep breath, then dared to ask: "Can I ask you something?"
I crossed my arms. "Go ahead."
"If… she wanted to stay. Like permanently. Would you want her to be your wife?"
The question hit like a pebble tossed into a still lake—small, yet its ripples reached far.
I looked at Aisha.
And said nothing.
Because for the first time, I didn't know how to answer.