But before that blessed day came, there were months of sabr.
Hamza had not merely walked into Mira's life with flowers and a proposal. He had stepped into the heart of a family — one where Mira was the only daughter, the youngest of four siblings, and the deeply cherished flower in a garden of brothers.
Three brothers. Protective. Proud. Possessive in that quiet, unspoken way that sons of honourable households are when it comes to their sister.
When Hamza sent his mother with the formal rishta, Mira's eldest brother, Faris, had crossed his arms and said bluntly:
> "We've seen what the world does to girls like her. Why should we believe this won't end the same?"
Hamza didn't flinch. He didn't boast, beg, or dramatize.
He simply said, "Because I won't build this with ego. I'll build it with taqwa."
The second brother, Rayyan, grilled him on financial plans, faith habits, past friendships. Hamza answered everything with honesty — not perfection. Just truth.
But it was the youngest, Mikael — closest to Mira in age, her study partner, her secret-keeper — who paused the longest. "Do you know how long it took her to heal? If you break her, she won't tell us. She'll go back to praying in silence, hurting in secret."
Hamza's voice broke for the first time then.
> "Wallahi, I will never be the reason she hides her tears again. If I can't protect her soul, I won't hold her hand."
Those words reached them — not because they were romantic, but because they were real. He wasn't asking to possess Mira.
He was promising to preserve her dignity — as a servant of Allah, as a daughter, as a sister.
Eventually, after istikhara, consultations, and quiet talks with Mira herself, her brothers relented.
But not before Faris pulled Hamza aside and said, "She was our delicate bloom in a storm of trials. If you make her cry, we will not ask why. We will just come."
Hamza smiled, with deep humility. "And if I ever do, may Allah not let me sleep in peace."
That night, Mira whispered to her mother, "I never wanted love that made me feel small. This love makes me feel safe."
And so, her nikah wasn't just a union between two souls — it was the gentle surrender of three brothers letting go of the sister they raised like a treasure, into the hands of a man who knew she belonged to Allah before she ever belonged to him.
There was no grand hall. No extravagant décor. Just the masjid courtyard, warm sunlight filtering through the arches, and a soft breeze that seemed to carry du'as from the unseen.
Mira wore a pale ivory hijab, her hands trembling slightly as she adjusted the lace edge near her wrists. Her dress was simple, modest, and flowing like the calm that had slowly found her over the past year. Her eyes searched the sky above — and in her heart, she whispered:
"Ya Allah, I trust You. I hand this love over to You."
Inside the masjid, Hamza sat quietly in the first row, a white kurta crisp against his frame. There was a glow on his face — not pride, not nerves — but sakoon, the kind of peace that only comes after years of longing, breaking, and bowing. He had fasted the day before, prayed istikhara each night, and cried sujood upon sujood.
He had once asked Allah for healing. Now he was asking for commitment in His name.
The Imam began the khutbah. Soft Arabic rolled like waves, followed by a gentle reminder:
> "A pious wife is a gift from Allah. And a righteous husband is a covering, a protector, a garment — not of control, but of mercy."
Witnesses surrounded them — her professor, two classmates, his Quran teacher, a nurse from her hospital round. There were no selfies, just silent prayers, like rose petals falling in unseen places.
And then, the moment came.
Her wali, Mira's eldest uncle, looked at Hamza with warmth and solemnity. "Do you accept my niece, Mira Zayan, in marriage, with the mahr of one Qur'an, a silver ring, and the promise of respect in the path of Allah?"
Hamza's voice was steady.
"Qabiltu."
I accept.
A pause.
A heartbeat.
And somewhere in the heavens, the pen wrote their names side by side.
When it was Mira's turn, the women's section was silent except for the soft sniffles of her mother. Mira took a breath, and her lips moved:
"Qabiltu."
I accept.
Tears fell quietly — not from pain, not from confusion — but from the overwhelming reality that what was once broken had been honored by the Divine.
They prayed two rak'ahs of shukr side by side — not looking at each other, but toward the Qiblah. It was not their eyes that spoke that day, but their hearts.
When they finally met after the prayer, a small private moment in the Imam's office, Hamza didn't rush to hold her hand. Instead, he looked at her and said:
> "You are an amanah. I will never claim you as mine. You belong to Allah first. But I promise to walk beside you — with love, prayer, and humility — until He calls us home."
Mira, teary-eyed, simply nodded.
> "And I promise to remind you of Him, even when I forget myself."
They didn't take photos. They took each other's du'as.
They didn't dance. But their souls rejoiced in sujood.
And that day, beneath the simplest sky, in the quietest masjid, a nikah was written that would echo beyond this world — into Jannah, insha'Allah.