The night air was cool as Rayya walked home through the narrow streets of her neighborhood. The city of Basra was quiet at this hour, the laughter of merchants and the clatter of carts having faded with the setting sun. But in Rayya’s mind, one voice echoed louder than all the others—the laughter of her friends, ringing in her ears like a heavy drum.

Tonight had been no different from any other. They had gathered outside the school after the final bell, talking and joking, their words flowing freely. Rayya had always been quick-witted, known among her friends for her sharp tongue. With her around, no conversation was ever dull—she always had a joke, a remark, a playful insult to keep the laughter going.

And tonight, the target had been Ida.

Ida was a quiet young woman, a tailor’s apprentice, with an awkward gait and a timid nature. She rarely spoke unless spoken to, and when she did, her words were slow and careful. The others often teased her, and Rayya was the best at it.

Tonight, she had imitated Ida’s slow speech, exaggerating her hesitations, making the others roar with laughter. She had called her “The Silent Donkey”—a name that had stuck for weeks. Ida had smiled faintly, as she always did, lowering her head. But before she left, Rayya had noticed something—a glimmer in her eyes, a flicker of hurt that vanished as quickly as it appeared.

At the time, she had ignored it. But now, as she walked home alone, it stayed with her.

That night, sleep refused to come. Rayya tossed and turned, the words of her jokes replaying in her mind. She had not meant harm—it was only fun. Wasn’t it?

A deep unease settled in her chest. Something about tonight felt different.

Unable to silence her thoughts, she rose before Fajr and made her way to the mosque. The city was still wrapped in darkness, the streets empty except for a few early risers heading for prayer.

Inside, she found the elderly scholar, Dr. Aaira, sitting in the dim light of the mosque, her fingers moving over her prayer beads.

Rayya hesitated, then approached. "Doctor," she said softly, "may I ask you something?"

The old woman smiled, nodding. "Of course, my child. What troubles you?"

Rayya hesitated before speaking. "My friends and I… we joke often. Last night, I made fun of a friend, but now I feel uneasy. I didn’t mean to hurt her, but..." She paused, struggling to find the right words. "Do words carry such weight, even if they are spoken in jest?"

Dr. Aaira’s expression darkened slightly. She placed the prayer beads aside and gestured for Rayya to sit.

"My child," she said, her voice gentle yet firm, "have you read the words of Allah?"

Rayya nodded. "Yes, of course."

"Then you know that Allah says in the Qur’an: ‘O you who have believed, let not a people ridicule another people; perhaps they may be better than them… And do not insult one another and do not call each other by offensive nicknames. Wretched is the name of disobedience after faith. And whoever does not repent—then it is they who are the wrongdoers.’ (Surah Al-Hujurat 49:11)"

Rayya’s breath caught in her throat. She had heard the verse before, but now, it felt like it was directed at her alone.

Dr. Aaira continued, "Do you know what the Prophet Muhammad (PBUH) said about mocking others?"

Rayya shook her head, her heart heavy.

"The Messenger of Allah, Muhammad (PBUH) said, ‘A believer is not one who taunts, curses, speaks obscenely, or ridicules others.’ (Tirmidhi)"

The doctor paused, letting the words settle. "Tell me, Rayya—what do you think hurts more, a wound on the skin or a wound on the heart?"

Rayya lowered her gaze. "The heart," she whispered.

Dr. Aaira nodded. "Indeed. A wound on the body heals. A wound caused by words? It stays. Some wounds last a lifetime."

A lump formed in Rayya’s throat. She thought of Ida—her quiet nature, her forced smiles, the way she never responded to their jokes. Had she been hurting all along?

Rayya swallowed hard, the weight of guilt pressing down on her chest. "Doctor," she said hesitantly, "what if… what if I have already caused such wounds?"

Dr. Aaira placed a reassuring hand on Rayya’s shoulder. "Then seek forgiveness—from Allah, and from the one you have hurt. Do not delay. A heart can harden with time, but it can also soften if approached with sincerity."

Rayya nodded, her stomach twisting with regret. She knew what she had to do.

The sun had just begun to rise when she found herself outside the tailor’s shop. Ida was already there, setting up her work for the day, her hands moving carefully over a pile of fabric.

Taking a deep breath, Rayya stepped forward. "Ida," she called softly.

The young woman looked up, surprised. "Rayya?"

Rayya swallowed her pride. "I… I need to talk to you."

Ida nodded hesitantly, setting down the cloth in her hands.

Rayya took a deep breath. "I have wronged you," she admitted. "I’ve made jokes at your expense, I’ve called you names, and I never stopped to think how it might have hurt you." She met Ida’s eyes, her voice raw with guilt. "I am ashamed. And I ask for your forgiveness."

Ida blinked, clearly taken aback. She was silent for a moment, then let out a small breath. "I… I never said anything because I didn’t want trouble," she admitted. "But, yes… it hurt."

Rayya’s heart sank.

Ida gave a small, tired smile. "But I forgive you."

Relief flooded through Rayya. "Thank you," she said, her voice filled with gratitude. "I promise, I will never mock you again. Or anyone else."

Ida nodded. Then, after a pause, she said, "You know, Rayya… you’re funny even without hurting people."

Rayya smiled, feeling lighter than she had in years.

From that day on, something within Rayya shifted. The world around her remained the same—the streets still buzzed with chatter, the marketplace still rang with the calls of merchants—but she saw things differently now.

She still laughed, still shared moments of joy with her friends, but never again at someone’s expense. And whenever she saw others making fun of someone, she no longer joined in. Instead, she became a voice of reason.

One afternoon, as she walked through the town square, she noticed a group of girls gathered around a younger girl, their voices laced with amusement.

"Say it again!" one of them urged, laughing. "Oh, come on, we’re just having fun!"

Rayya caught the look on the younger girl’s face—her hesitant smile, her lowered eyes, the way she shifted uncomfortably.

Something in that moment struck her deeply, as if she were looking at a reflection of her past self.

She stepped forward, her voice calm but firm. "Fun isn’t fun if it comes at someone else’s expense."

The laughter faltered, and the girls turned to look at her.

"It’s just a joke, Rayya," one of them shrugged.

She smiled gently. "I used to think that too."

There was a pause. The younger girl glanced at her, something like relief in her eyes.

Rayya didn’t need to say more. She had learned that words were not just fleeting sounds carried by the wind. They held weight. They could uplift or they could wound.

And a believer—one who truly fears Allah—chooses their words carefully, knowing that on the Day of Judgment, every word will be accounted for.

For in the end, laughter fades, but the pain of a careless word can last a lifetime.