Amina opened her eyes.
But this wasn’t her room.
The ceiling she had stared at for countless mornings was gone. The beige paint, the whirring fan, the sunlight slipping through her curtain—all absent. There was no sound of Fajr azaan, no clatter of her mother in the kitchen. Instead, she found herself staring up at a sky the color of deep indigo, stars glittering above like shattered crystals across velvet.
A breeze played with her hijab. The fabric of her abaya fluttered slightly as she sat up. Around her stretched a field of grass that shimmered with a soft silver hue. It wasn’t cold, yet a strange chill ran through her—a chill of wonder, of uncertainty. She rubbed her eyes. Still there.
She hadn’t fallen asleep in bed. The last thing she remembered was falling into sujood during Tahajjud. Crying into the prayer mat. Whispering du’a into the quiet dark of her room.
“Ya Allah… I don’t know how long I can do this. I’m tired. Please. Just… hold me for a while.”
And now, she was here.
In the distance stood tall structures. Not buildings, but towers made of radiant light, laced with flowing Arabic calligraphy that pulsed like a heartbeat. As she rose to her feet, a presence appeared.
A child.
Barefoot. Clothed in simple white. His eyes were ageless.
He smiled. “You came. I was waiting.”
Amina tilted her head. “Do I know you?”
“You will. Or maybe you did. It doesn’t matter now.”
He held out his hand. She hesitated, then took it.
Warmth radiated into her.
As they walked, the landscape shifted. Not like a dream where the world flickers and vanishes, but like pages of a book being turned slowly, revealing more. The towers in the distance drew closer. The Arabic on their walls began to glow brighter. Now, she could read them:
"Verily, with hardship comes ease.""He does not burden a soul more than it can bear.""Indeed, the help of Allah is near."
Her steps slowed. Her eyes welled.
“Why am I here?”
The boy smiled again. “Because you asked.”
“I didn’t ask for another world.”
“You asked for peace. For rest. For healing. This is where souls go when they whisper that kind of du’a with sincerity.”
They reached a hill that overlooked a flowing river. But the river was not water. It was light. It moved in streams of noor, glowing with pale gold and silver, with hints of lavender and blue. It hummed. It sang.
Each wave whispered ayahs from the Qur’an. Each ripple carried fragments of memories—hers.
She gasped as she saw herself within the water. Standing alone on her balcony. Crying silently after a long day. Smiling through her exhaustion while serving food to her younger siblings. Sitting in the masjid, listening to a khutbah while fighting back a storm within. Every time she said “Alhamdulillah” even when it hurt. Every moment she thought was unseen.
“Why are you showing me this?”
The boy's voice was softer now. “Because you forgot that Allah sees it all.”
She dropped to her knees, staring into the river. The world had made her feel small. Disposable. Weak. She had questioned herself again and again. Why was she always the one holding herself together while others were allowed to fall apart?
She felt a warm hand on her shoulder.
“You are seen. You are heard. You are loved.”
“Am I dreaming?” she asked.
“This is more real than the lies you’ve been told. That your softness is weakness. That your faith is foolish. That your worth is measured in productivity.”
Tears spilled from her eyes. Her heart ached, not from pain, but from release.
“I want to stay here,” she said.
The child shook his head. “No, you have work to do. There are people waiting for you. Du’as waiting to be made. Kindnesses waiting to be given. Lives you will touch without even knowing.”
The sky above them began to glow brighter. The indigo softened to a silver dawn. She looked up and saw birds flying overhead, their wings made of light.
She closed her eyes. She wanted to bottle this peace. This stillness. To take it back with her.
“You can,” the boy said, reading her thoughts. “Just remember this feeling. When life gets loud, come back to it in sujood.”
She turned to him. “Will I see you again?”
He smiled with that ageless kindness. “You never stopped seeing me. I’ve always been there. In the quiet strength inside you.”
Her vision blurred.
The wind picked up.
The river shimmered brighter. The towers pulsed.
The world whispered goodbye.
Amina opened her eyes.
She was back in her room. On the prayer mat. The azaan for Fajr filled the early dawn air.
Her cheeks were wet. Her body felt light, as if she had shed layers of burdens in her sleep.
She stood slowly.
Everything looked the same.
But nothing felt the same.
She walked to the window. The world outside stirred with life. Cars passed. Lights blinked. Life moved.
But now she saw it all differently.
She had remembered.
She was not forgotten. Her patience was seen. Her prayers were heard.
And she had been held.
In a place beyond time, between worlds, cradled in divine mercy.
She stepped back to her prayer mat.
And whispered a new du’a—not one of desperation, but of gratitude.
“Thank You for reminding me who I am.”
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