The car stopped before a tall gate. I drew a slow breath and stepped out, my hands brushing the folds of my dupatta. This was to be my new home. The air felt different here, quiet and still. The house rose before me like a whisper, tall and solid, with soft lights in the windows.
Arhaan stepped out of the car moments later. He didn't say a word. He waved a hand towards the door, as if telling me to go in. I lowered my gaze and stepped across the threshold.
The hallway was long and quiet. The walls held soft frames, some with old photographs, some with faintly dusted ornaments. My footsteps felt too loud upon the marble floor. Somewhere deeper in the house, a clock ticked slowly.
I stopped at the edge of the living room. The space felt elegant, but also lonely. The cream walls carried a hint of coldness, as if the house itself was holding its breath. A faint scent of sandalwood rose from a lamp upon a table.
Behind me, I felt Arhaan's presence. He didn't come closer. He didn't ask if I was tired or afraid. He simply spoke in a voice that was low and quiet.
"This will be your room for now," he said, pointing down the hallway. "If you need anything, ask the house staff."
Then he turned and walked away.
I watched as he disappeared down the corridor. The sound of a door closing felt like an echo upon the silence. Suddenly, this big house felt even larger. Yet I refused to let my heart sink.
I pressed my palm upon the door of the room he had pointed out. It was warm under my hand. Slowly, I pushed it open and stepped inside.
The room was simple. A bed, a desk, a closet. Nothing too personal, nothing too sharp. Yet, in its simplicity, I felt a quiet peace. Here, in this room, I could pray. Here, I could find strength. Here, I could ask Allah to guide me upon this path.
I sank down upon the edge of the bed and drew a slow breath. The sound of the clock ticked faintly from the living room, reminding me that this was just the beginning. This house, this man, this silence — it was now a part of Allah's plan for me.
I rose and stepped towards the window. The garden beyond was bathed in faint light. The leaves shimmered as if whispering Allah's remembrance. In that quiet moment, I pressed a hand to my heart and promised myself one thing:
I would walk this path with patience. I would walk it with strength. Whatever came next, Allah would walk with me.
With that thought resting deep within, I drew the curtains closed and sank upon the prayer mat. My voice rose soft and low in the stillness, whispering words that only Allah can truly understand.
The morning came quietly, brushing soft light across the room. I rose from bed with a slow breath and drew the shawl across my shoulders. The air felt crisp, carrying faint traces of sandalwood and freshly brewed tea from the kitchen.
I stepped out of the room, brushing my hand upon the doorframe. The house felt quiet. Not cold, not warm, just quiet. Somewhere down the hallway came a faint sound of a newspaper being folded.
Arhaan was in the living room. He sat upon a cream couch, a book resting upon his knee. He didn't notice when I came closer. Not until I spoke.
"Asalam Alaikum," I said softly.
He looked up slowly. The sound of my voice felt like it pulled him out of deep thought. His gaze met mine, deep and unreadable. "Wa Alaikum Asalam," he replied, voice low.
I stood for a moment, not knowing what to say. The silence felt like a long hallway between us. Not a space that could be crossed quickly. Not yet.
"Have you eaten?" he asked suddenly, brushing a hand across the spine of the book.
I shook my head. "Not yet."
He gave a faint nod, looking down at the book. "The staff can help you. The kitchen is yours. Do as you like."
There was no harshness in his voice. But also no warmth. It felt like words offered to a guest, not a wife. Yet, somewhere deep within, I refused to sink into despair.
"Thank you," I said quietly.
He didn't reply, only glanced towards the book upon his lap. I stepped away slowly, brushing the edge of the doorframe as I passed. The silence felt long, but not sharp. It felt like a space where words had yet to grow.
I found the kitchen and made tea. The sound of the kettle felt like a whisper upon the quiet air. I poured the tea slowly, my hands brushing the warm sides of the cup. In moments like this, I reminded myself to be patient. Allah sees. Allah knows. Allah guides.
I returned to the living room, a second cup in my hand. Arhaan didn't look up when I placed it upon the side table near him. Yet, after a moment, I felt him glance towards the cup. The silence felt softer then. Not an answer, not an invitation, but a shift — faint, almost unseen.
I sank down upon the edge of a chair across the room. The morning sun spilled across the floor. Somewhere deep within, I felt a quiet strength rise. Whatever this silence held, Allah had placed it upon this path for a reason. Whatever moments came next, I would walk towards them, one step at a time.
With that thought upon my heart, I lifted my own cup and drew a slow breath. The tea was warm upon my tongue. The room was quiet. Yet, somehow, in its silence, Allah was reminding me:
Trust the path. Trust the moment. Trust the One who writes every chapter.
The evening came with a soft glow upon the walls. The sound of the ceiling fan felt like a whisper upon the silence. I was in the living room, brushing the edge of a book I had found upon the shelf. The book felt old, its spine faintly worn, as if it had been read many times before.
Arhaan entered quietly. The sound of his footsteps was soft upon the floor. I looked up as he sank down upon the sofa across from me. He didn't speak right away. He rested an elbow upon the arm of the sofa, brushing long fingers across the edge of his jaw. The silence felt long, but not sharp.
"What are you reading?" he asked quietly, breaking the stillness.
I glanced down at the book upon my lap. "It is a collection of old poems," I said softly. "I found it upon the shelf."
He gave a faint nod, brushing a hand across the book upon the table. "My mother used to read that one," he said quietly.
I felt the air shift. The sound of those words felt like an opening, like a faint crack upon a door that had long been closed. I drew a slow breath and spoke as gently as I could.
"She must have been a beautiful person," I said, brushing the edge of the book with my fingers. "Poetry lives where the heart rests."
Arhaan didn't reply for a moment. He tilted his head slightly, and when he spoke, it felt like words drawn from a deep well. "She was," he said quietly. "She taught me to pray when I was a boy. To remember Allah when the nights felt long."
The sound of those words felt sacred somehow. In that moment, the space between us felt a little smaller, a little warmer.
I drew a slow breath and offered quietly, "May Allah grant her the highest place in Jannah."
He glanced at me then. Not with coldness. Not with anger. But with a faint softness upon the edge of tired eyes. He gave a faint nod and spoke, voice low.
"Ameen."
The silence returned, but it felt different. Not the silence of strangers, but the silence of two hearts resting upon a faint bridge. Not a bridge built of promises, not yet, but of understanding.
I sank back upon the edge of the sofa, brushing the cover of the book upon my lap. The lamp upon the side table cast faint light upon the room. Somewhere deep within, I felt a warmth rise. Not because things had changed, not because words had promised more, but because Allah had placed a seed upon this quiet soil.
I promised myself then, in silence, that I would walk upon this path with patience. Whatever came next, Allah was near. Whatever silence rose between us, Allah was closer.
With that thought upon my heart, I glanced towards Arhaan. He was looking down, brushing a hand across the spine of the book upon the table. Not saying much. Not reaching far. Yet in that faint stillness, I felt the whisper of Allah upon the air.
Trust the path. Trust the silence. Trust the moments Allah chooses for hearts to open.
The next morning came with a faint mist upon the garden. I stepped quietly down the long hallway, brushing my hand upon the cream-colored walls. The house felt still. Somewhere deep within its heart, memories lived like whispers upon old paper.
I found a room at the end of the corridor. The door was half open. I placed a hand upon its wooden edge and stepped inside. The air felt different here — faint traces of sandalwood and old books. The room was lined with shelves, books resting upon them like pieces of a life long ago.
A single framed picture sat upon a small table. I drew closer, brushing the dust from its surface. It was Arhaan as a boy, smiling shyly beside a woman whose eyes felt like warmth upon the room. The woman wore a soft shawl upon her shoulders, and upon her lap lay a book. The faint beauty upon her face felt like a prayer captured upon paper.
I sank down upon the floor and drew a slow breath. In that moment, it felt like Allah had led me to a piece of Arhaan's heart that words had yet to find. The room felt sacred, holding memories upon its shelves like treasures upon a chest.
I brushed a hand upon the edge of the picture and spoke quietly, as if to the air itself. "May Allah grant her the highest place in Jannah," I whispered. The sound felt soft upon the room.
Behind me, a faint sound came. Not a voice, just the quiet shift of a shoe upon the floor. I turned slowly, and found Arhaan standing in the doorway. The silence felt long between us, long enough for the air to hold its breath.
He didn't speak at first. He stepped closer, brushing a hand upon the edge of the table where the picture rested. The faint lines upon his face deepened, and when he spoke, his voice was low, like a prayer upon the wind.
"She was everything to me," he said quietly. "Everything. Allah gave her, and Allah called her back."
I rose slowly, brushing the folds of my shawl as I stepped closer to him. Not too close, not too far. Just enough for Allah to fill the space between.
"She still lives in your heart," I said quietly. "Through Allah, she is never far. Allah knows the longing we carry."
He didn't reply. Not with words. But I felt the silence shift. Not a silence built of walls, but a silence built upon remembrance. The faint crack in that silence felt like Allah's mercy upon this moment.
Arhaan lowered his gaze, brushing a hand across the picture. Then, slowly, he spoke. "Thank you," he said quietly. Not sharp. Not cold. Just a sound upon the air that felt like the faint whisper of belonging.
I drew a slow breath and smiled faintly, brushing the folds of my shawl between my fingers. Whatever came next upon this path, Allah was near. Allah would guide the moments yet to come.
With that thought upon my heart, I stepped towards the door. The room felt warm now. Not because of its walls, not because of its memories, but because Allah had placed a faint seed upon this quiet soil.
Trust the moments Allah gives. Trust the silence Allah guides. Trust that belonging can rise from places long buried, upon a prayer long offered.
The sun was low upon the horizon when I stepped out into the garden. The air felt soft upon the skin, brushing faint whispers of the trees upon the edges of the lawn. The garden felt quiet, yet alive — a space that held moments and memories like pages upon an old book.
I sank down upon the stone bench, brushing a hand upon its surface. The faint sound of water came from a small fountain nearby. Somewhere deep within, I felt Allah upon this stillness.
Arhaan appeared moments later. He didn't speak right away. He sank down upon the opposite side of the garden, brushing a hand upon the edge of a rose bush. The silence felt long, yet it felt different tonight. Not sharp. Not cold. Just quiet, like the moments Allah gives for hearts to slow down.
I drew a slow breath and glanced towards him. The faint lines upon his face felt softer tonight. Not erased, not gone, just resting upon a space that felt like Allah's mercy upon a moment.
"Your garden is beautiful," I said quietly, brushing a finger upon a falling petal. "It feels like a place where Allah reminds the heart to rest."
Arhaan looked up slowly. The faint glow of the setting sun kissed the edges of his features. He gave a faint nod, brushing a hand upon a rose. "My mother loved this garden," he said quietly. "I try to keep it as she left it. Somehow, it feels like she is still here when I walk upon this path."
I felt the sting of tears rise, but I drew a slow breath. Not for myself, not for the moment, but for the quiet mercy Allah placed upon moments like these.
"She is still here," I said softly. "Through Allah, she rests upon a garden far more beautiful than this one. And Allah allows moments like this so that our hearts can remember and pray for those we love."
Arhaan didn't reply at first. He sank down upon the edge of the bench, brushing a hand upon the soft grass. The silence felt long, yet it felt like Allah was reshaping it. Not silence as distance, but silence as belonging.
Then, very quietly, he spoke. "I pray for her every night. Sometimes I wonder if she knows." His voice felt faint, yet strong — the sound of a heart that still hoped upon Allah.
"She knows," I said softly. "A mother's heart rests upon the prayers of a son. Allah delivers every word. Allah delivers every breath. Allah delivers every love upon the hearts that wait for us upon the other side."
He looked towards the faint stars rising upon the twilight. The silence felt like Allah brushing His mercy upon the garden, upon this moment, upon this space between two strangers tied upon the threads Allah Himself had woven.
I rose slowly, brushing the folds of my shawl upon my hands. "May Allah make this house a place of mercy for both of us," I said quietly.
He didn't reply. Not with words. Not with gestures. But in the faint stillness of that moment, I felt Allah upon the air. Not because a bond had been built fully, but because a seed had been placed upon soil long dry.
Trust Allah. Trust the moments Allah gives. Trust that belonging can rise upon the quiet threads Allah weaves upon hearts that wait for Him.
With that thought upon my heart, I stepped towards the door, brushing the faint mist upon the garden path. The night felt soft upon the air. Somewhere deep within, a prayer rose upon the silence. Allah knows. Allah guides. Allah delivers every heart upon the path it was meant to walk.
The night was quiet when I returned to my room. The faint sound of crickets floated upon the air, brushing the edges of the curtains like whispers upon the wind. I sank down upon the edge of the bed, brushing a hand upon the soft fabric of the cover. The silence felt different tonight — not sharp, not cold, but resting upon the threads Allah Himself had placed upon this path.
Through the half‑open door, I could hear faint sounds from down the hallway. Arhaan's voice upon a quiet phone call. The sound of a book brushing upon a table. The faint hum of a man lost in thought. Yet between those moments and mine, Allah had placed a space where silence no longer felt like distance. It felt like a bridge. A faint, hopeful bridge upon a long and winding path.
I drew a slow breath and sank down upon the prayer mat. The soft threads brushed upon my fingers as I pressed my forehead upon the ground. The words came quietly. Not rehearsed. Not shaped. Just words upon a heart that knew Allah was listening.
"Ya Allah," I whispered, brushing the silence upon the room. "You have brought me upon this path. You have placed moments upon moments upon this heart. Whatever lies upon this path, I trust You. Whatever waits upon the days ahead, I trust You. Whatever rests upon this silence, I trust You."
The sound of my own voice felt like a seed upon soil long dry. Yet Allah knows. Allah sees. Allah hears every beat upon a heart that rests upon His mercy.
I rose slowly, brushing the folds of my shawl upon the bed. The faint glow of the lamp felt like a witness upon this moment. Not a witness upon a chapter finished, but upon a chapter just beginning.
Through the faint spaces of the door, a soft sound came. Not a word. Not a voice. Just the faint shift of a man brushing upon the hallway, a quiet reminder that Allah can tie threads between hearts upon moments faint as mist upon midnight.
I sank down upon the bed, brushing a hand upon the soft cover. The silence felt like a prayer upon the room. Not a silence built upon walls, but upon threads. Not threads tied by hands, but threads tied by Allah Himself.
The chapter felt like a faint breath upon the pages of a long book. Not a chapter upon its end, but upon its rise. Not a silence upon its closing, but upon its soft, hopeful opening.
Trust Allah. Trust the threads Allah weaves upon moments faint and deep. Trust that belonging can rise upon spaces long dry. Trust that Allah guides upon every silence, every breath, every prayer upon a hopeful heart.
With that thought resting deep upon my chest, I sank upon the bed and drew the shawl upon my shoulders. The room felt quiet. The house felt quiet. Yet upon that silence, Allah felt near.