I sat by the kitchen window, the pale early afternoon light casting soft shadows over the worn pages of my journal. The final sentence stared back at me, like a whisper etched into my thoughts:
"I need to know what was sealed… and why it's breaking open now."
I read it again.
And again.
Those words—my own words—felt like they didn't belong to me anymore. They were someone else's prophecy, someone else's burden. But I had inherited it. Whether I liked it or not.
My fingers brushed over the ink, almost hoping to feel something—some trace of understanding left behind by my confused mind. The silence in the kitchen was heavy, pressing against my chest, and I realized I was holding my breath.
I exhaled slowly.
The world outside the window was moving on—birds darting through the sky, the neighbor's cat napping on the wall, the wind teasing the leaves of the guava tree my father once planted. But inside me, everything was still. Caught in that sentence. In that mystery.
A dull ache settled in my chest.
"I have to go," I murmured to no one.
Slowly, I stood up. My knees cracked slightly—a reminder that I was no longer the boy who once ran through the courtyard chasing jinn stories and my friends.
I walked into my room. The air in there always carried the faint scent of old wood and worn paper. I grabbed my black leather travel bag and laid it on the bed, the zipper groaning as I opened it.
As I began folding a few clothes into it, my eyes fell on the old green address book tucked into the bookshelf—dusty, almost forgotten.
Baba's handwriting.
I reached for it gently, the weight of it heavier than I remembered. On the cover, in faded ink, was written:"Adam ibn Isa Al-Qamar – Contacts & Clues"
I swallowed hard.
Baba's name still stung, like a fresh bruise beneath my ribs. It had been years since he passed in that car accident alone with my Amma, but their absence lingered like a shadow at sunset—always present, always stretching across my life.
He had updated this book last, scribbling notes in the margins and drawing lines between names like a man trying to untangle a secret. He always had his suspicions… and maybe now, I was beginning to understand why.
I tucked the book into my bag with more care than I gave my own clothes. And then I left the house.
The streets were quieter than usual. Maybe it was the heat—sharp and dry—or maybe I was just seeing the world differently now.
The weight of purpose does that to you. It changes how everything looks. The same alleyways I passed since childhood now felt like ancient corridors holding forgotten memories. And every shadow seemed to be watching.
I was on my way to meet someone I hadn't seen in years—Maulana Idris—my Qur'an teacher. He wasn't just a scholar; he was a man of deep knowledge, of stories from the past, of prophets and jinn and the veils that separated realms. He used to teach me and my friends under the neem tree behind the masjid, his voice soft but filled with strength.
We were children then—barefoot, dusty, laughing between ayahs and getting scolded for not learning the lesson.
It felt like a lifetime ago.
As I walked through the old gate into the courtyard of the madrasa, I saw him. Sitting on the veranda, a steaming cup of chai beside him, reciting something softly. His black beard now grown whiter, his back slightly more hunched, but his presence… it was still firm. Grounded. Like he knew things the rest of the world forgot.
For a moment, he looked at me—eyes narrowing in confusion.
"Yes, beta? How can I help you?"
His voice was exactly how I remembered it—calm, clear, full of warmth. It echoed a hundred memories, like the ones wrapped in the scent of old books, wooden prayer benches, and afternoons spent trying not to fall asleep in class.
My voice caught in my throat. For a moment, I was that little boy again—dusty feet, satchel bouncing at my side, fear and excitement tangled in my chest.
"Maulana Idris… it's me. Ayaan. Ayaan ibn Adam Al-Qamar."
He squinted at me. Tilted his head a little. Then I saw it—recognition blooming slowly across his face like the sun rising after Fajr.
"Ya Allah…" he whispered. "Ayaan? SubhanAllah. I haven't seen you in years..." he said with a soft smile on his lips. " You were just a boy. Running barefoot with ink on your shirt, shouting 'Bismillah' at the top of your lungs whenever someone sneezed. Memorizing Surah Rahman like it was a song—pausing every few ayahs to ask if it rhymed."
I laughed. My chest tightened with something warm and aching. "You still remember that?"
"I never forget the ones who carry noor in them," he said, softer now. "Your father used to say you had too much light in your eyes to stay small forever. Always asking questions. Always chasing things others ignored."
He stepped aside, his hand on my back as he welcomed me in. "Come. Sit, beta. We'll talk."
We moved to the veranda—its bamboo shades swaying in the quiet wind, a chipped table between us, and two mismatched chairs that looked older than both of us. He brought out a small metal tray with a dented teapot and two cups. The scent of cardamom and cloves rose like a familiar lullaby.
"How long has it been?" he asked.
"Years," I replied. "Since before Baba…"
I didn't finish the sentence. I didn't need to.
He nodded quietly. His eyes flicked to the floor. A soft sigh escaped his lips. "He was a good man. The kind this world sees once in a generation. May Allah grant him the highest Jannah."
"Ameen," I whispered.
He poured the chai with slow, careful hands.
"Still seven spoons of sugar?" he teased.
I grinned. "No. Just one now. I grew up."
"Liar." His eyes twinkled. "You used to pretend to take one spoon and then sneak the rest when I wasn't looking."
We both laughed, and for a moment, I forgot why I had come. The memories were rushing back—bittersweet and golden.
"Do you remember the time you and Hamza replaced the classroom chalk with sugar cubes?"
I burst out laughing. "We thought no one would notice!"
"You nearly gave Ustadh Kareem a heart attack when he licked the 'chalk' to test it!"
I wiped my eyes, smiling so wide it hurt. "I know we were horrible."
"You were boys," he corrected gently. "Restless, clever, full of life. Always thinking you were smarter than your teachers."
"Bilal once convinced the whole class we'd get Jannah if we skipped math class and prayed extra Sunnah."
"And then you all got caught hiding behind the masjid, pretending to be in sujood." He laughed, shaking his head. "I still remember that I made you all recite Surah Al-Mulk fifty times before letting you all go home."
I looked down at the cup in my hand, the laughter fading into quiet. "Those were good days."
"Yes," he said, his voice lower now. "They were. And they shaped you, more than you realize."
The silence stretched between us again. This time, it felt heavier.
He studied me for a moment. "You've seen something. Haven't you?"
I didn't respond. I didn't know where to begin. The journal. The dreams. The whispers beneath the tree. Or that meeting with them. With Ghaziwan. And the feeling that something ancient was reaching out to me.
Before I could speak, the call to Dhuhr prayer approached. A stillness descended, like time itself had paused.
He looked at me again, something soft and expectant in his eyes.
"Ayaan… would you give the adhan? Just like you used to?"
My breath hitched.
I hadn't stood to give the call since Baba died. Since the house went quiet. And ever since those dreams began.
I rose slowly, heart pounding in my chest. My legs trembled, not from fear—but from the weight of memory. Every step I took toward the front steps of the masjid felt like walking through time itself.
I turned toward the qibla.
Closed my eyes.
And then, I called:
"Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar…"
The sound of my own voice surprised me. It was deeper now—steadier. But within it was the echo of the boy I once was, calling from the dusty courtyard with scraped knees and a full heart.
"Ashhadu an la ilaha illa Allah…"
I saw Baba's smile, standing behind me during practice, gently correcting my tone.
"Ashhadu anna Muhammadan Rasul Allah…"
I felt his hand on my head, whispering du'as into my hair at night.
"Hayya 'ala-s-salah…"
I heard Maulana Idris' voice in my memory: "Salat is what connects us. What cleanses us. And brings us closer to Allah."
"Hayya 'ala-l-falah…"
And then I remembered the dream.
The voice beneath the tree. The one that called my name from the soil.
The earth beneath me seemed to shift—just slightly. As if something had stirred.
When I finished, I turned slowly.
Maulana Idris was standing with his hands clasped in front of him. His eyes were glistening.
"The voice is deeper, yes… but the soul behind it?" He placed a hand on my shoulder. "Still pure. Still searching."
I sat down beside him again.
But the world no longer felt the same.
The wind had stilled.
The light had dimmed.
Somewhere deep inside me, I knew the journey had begun. The real one. The one Baba may have feared. The one I couldn't turn away from now.
I was no longer walking alone.
And the echoes of what had been sealed… were no longer silent.