The next day, Aisha still found herself replaying the market encounter, her expression annoyed yet composed.
"What kind of accusation was that? If we meet again, I wish to ask him—from which book did he derive such reckless judgment?"
Layla stifled a laugh.
Aisha lifted her chin. "Perhaps his mind is trapped between a scale and a merchant's basket."
Layla tilted her head, half worried. "You do realize… he wasn't an ordinary young man."
Aisha scoffed softly.
"That young man… was extraordinarily arrogant."
---
The Governor's Residence of Baghdad — Morning
Rummanah, Layla's loyal attendant since childhood, walked quietly behind her mistress, carrying a small tray of perfume oil and shawls.
She was ten years older than Layla, yet her movements remained brisk. Her voice often slipped in gentle reprimands—ones only Layla ever truly understood.
The Baghdad morning was calm. Layla knew better: when Aisha grew silent for too long, it was never peace—it was a storm in preparation.
"Which shawl would you like, Miss?" Rummanah asked, arranging them atop the marble table.
"The one that makes you look like a Damascene spy, or the kind worn by poets dying of unrequited love?"
Layla pointed to the darkest one. "That one."
Rummanah raised an eyebrow. "Dark colors usually signal adventure. Or transgression."
"You always prepare them without asking too many questions," Layla replied.
"If I asked," Rummanah said lightly, "your answers would make little sense anyway."
--
In the garden, silk curtains swayed in the breeze. Al-Hasan ibn Sahl and his wife sat beneath an olive tree.
Nearby ran Khadijah Buran— a historical figure, destined to become the future consort of Caliph al-Ma'mun.
For now, she was only eight years old, laughing as she tucked frangipani flowers into her hair.
"Dad. Do I look like the Persian queens you told me about?" Buran chirped.
Al-Hasan laughed. ""Then you are one of them—a queen who composes verses of poetryhe.
His wife added dryly, "Though far more talkative than any poet."
Layla approached them. Behind her, Rummanah carried a thin shawl and a small wrapped bundle.
"Father, Mother," Layla greeted, bowing slightly. "There is a manuscript from Yemen. I wish to copy it—somewhere more spacious."
Al-Hasan narrowed his eyes. "You're not planning to sneak out again, are you?"
Layla's eyes widened. Behind her, Rummanah nearly dropped what she was carrying.
For a brief moment, the room froze.
Then Al-Hasan laughed.
"Hahaha… Father only joking."
Layla exhaled softly, murmuring, "Hehe… for a moment, I thought my heart would betray me."
He waved a hand lightly, his smile returning.
"Just be careful in choosing your place of study. A guard will accompany you."
Layla let out a quiet breath and bowed again, a smile she had only just recovered settling back on her face.
Without looking up from her stitching, Layla's mother spoke gently—though her words carried weight.
"You should have long been settled in your husband's home. Your actions have brought unwelcome attention upon me."
Layla's fingers tightened around the edge of her sleeve.
"I understand, Mother. I never intended to cause you distress."
A brief silence followed.
Then suddenly, Al-Hasan's voice rose from behind his scrolls.
"Let her go."
Silence fell.
"If Layla seeks knowledge," he continued, "and that knowledge strengthens her devotion to Allah, then her steps are more honorable than a thousand wedding feasts. Let her know the world—so that one day, when she chooses silence, it is not because she was confined, but because she understands when to speak."
Layla's mother lowered her head, the thread trembling in her hands.
Layla bowed deeply. "Jazakumullāh, Father."
With her head held high, she stepped away.
--
As they walked away from her parents,
Rummanah leaned closer and whispered, "A wider place—or a new prohibition?"
Layla lowered her voice until it was barely audible.
"A place where a woman may find a little protection…"
She paused.
"…before she is caught in marriage."
Rummanah muttered, "I only hope the neighbors don't start talking about you to your mother again."
---
The Grand House of Vizier al-Fadl — Midday
Zahra opened the back door and smiled at their arrival.
"Long time no see, Rummanah. Still content serving that young lady?"
"If I weren't," Rummanah replied flatly, "I'd have traded her for two sacks of old dates at the Karkh market."
Zahra laughed softly.
Aisha emerged from behind a pillar, carrying a basket of manuscript scrolls.
"The southern gate of Bayt al-Hikmah is open for deliveries from Khurasan. We'll disguise ourselves as caravan bearers delivering texts for verification."
They changed clothes—no silk, no embroidery—only worn fabric and gray cloaks. Zahra tucked an ink pouch into her belt. Rummanah adjusted Layla's veil.
"Ready?" Aisha asked.
Layla took a deep breath, then nodded.
"Let's go in," she whispered. "Before I change my mind."
---
The Southern Gate of Bayt al-Hikmah
The corridor smelled of ink and aged leather. The southern gate was humbler than the main entrance; two guards in black turbans leaned on their spears.
Aisha whispered, "Remember—we are merely carriers. Do not speak unless I do."
They offered greetings. Aisha handed over the wax-sealed scrolls. For a breathless moment, the guard examined the letter of introduction.
He grunted. "Go in. Do not wander. The archive room is in the western wing."
They crossed the threshold. Light filtered through latticed windows, dust floating like grains of gold.
Zahra bowed her head. "Ya Rabb… we made it."
Rummanah stared in awe. "Astaghfirullāh… the shelves are taller than my ambitions."
They moved deeper inside. At the end of the corridor, muted debate echoed—Arabic intertwined with Syriac.
A voice—low and steady—halted Aisha's steps.
She edged closer, peering past a shelf. At a translator's desk sat a young man studying a manuscript; his turban was white, his fingertips stained with ink—enough for Aisha to recognize him as the same figure from the market.
Layla held her breath. "Impossible…"
Zahra whispered, "That's the young man from the market, isn't it?"
Aisha watched him—not out of resentment, but out of burning curiosity. He was no coincidence. In the way he sat, in how he weighed each word, there was something provocative.
Before she could stop herself, Aisha stepped toward his table.
The librarian raised an eyebrow. "You are not regular manuscript carriers."
Zahra bowed quickly. "We are helpers from a Khurasan caravan, delivering texts for review."
Rummanah nearly spoke but restrained herself; a small sneeze froze the air—but the librarian merely gestured to a side table.
"Place them there."
The young man looked up.
Their eyes met.
For an instant, the world seemed to whisper.
Aisha sensed that the gaze held a promise—of secrecy, of challenge, or perhaps merely an invitation.
Indonesia, 2025 CE
Far from the clamor of Baghdad's markets, Ruqayyah sat at her study desk, surrounded by mathematics, biology, chemistry, and physics.
Instead of manuscript scrolls, there were graphs, cell diagrams, and reaction formulas.
Her friends relaxed outside—laughing, chatting—while she immersed herself in notes and small experiments: weighing objects, observing vinegar and baking soda reactions, calculating how far a pendulum swung before coming to rest.
A brief nod toward Bela's invitation was enough; words were not always necessary. Her silence was not indifference—it was method.
She mapped patterns, wrote unfinished questions: one math problem, one biological concept, one experiment idea for tomorrow.
As the sun lowered, she walked home slowly—her steps calm, deliberate. In her heart lived something she shared with Aisha, though they had never met:
a curiosity that need not be loud to be vast.
The next morning, during the school assembly, the lines were noisy. Laughter and whispers filled the yard.
Ruqayyah half-closed her eyes, filtering the sound—breaking it into patterns.
She caught a sharp disruption: the repeated scraping of shoes from two students.
Without fuss, she stepped forward, bent slightly, and said quietly,
"Be still. Don't move your feet."
The noise faded.
Several classmates glanced at her in surprise. Ruqayyah returned to her place, already noting the source, the pattern, and the solution in her mind.
Her silence—and her small actions—were the result of focused attention, born from seeking the source of disturbance.
---
Returning to Abbasiyah 816 CE
Bayt al-Hikmah — The Study Hall
The young man closed the final page of his manuscript and stepped toward Aisha, who was struggling to balance a basket filled with scrolls.
That voice.
He had heard it before—sharp, certain, annoyingly unafraid.
The girl from the market.
Faris lowered his gaze back to the manuscript, unimpressed.
Hah. Easily guessed," he thought. Not interesting.
"So your task is merely to smuggle other people's writings?" he said flatly.
Aisha stopped.
She turned slowly, a faint smile curving at the corner of her lips.
"And you are still the market youth who delights in judging people before knowing them."
Their voices were sharp, colliding like two unsheathed blades. Sentence after sentence flew without restraint—until Layla suddenly intervened.
With a serious expression, she grabbed Aisha's wrist.
"That's enough, Aisha," she whispered firmly.
"What is this, Layla?" Aisha protested, half dramatic. "Let go of me."
"No." Layla tightened her grip. "Your anger is making you forget your limits."
Not far from them, Zahra, Maryam, and Rummanah watched, their expressions no longer relaxed.
"They've gone too far," Zahra murmured.
Layla leaned closer to Aisha.
"If you keep this up, people will think you're siblings fighting over an inheritance."
Rummanah added flatly,
"Or a couple who missed the proper time for a marriage proposal."
A few steps later, Layla lowered her voice further.
"Do you know who he is?"
Aisha snorted.
"A young man with terrible manners."
"Faris ibn Yahya," Layla continued. "The son of a Qadhi."
Aisha paused, then clicked her tongue.
"He doesn't look like it."
"You remember him well, apparently," Layla teased.
"Not really," Aisha replied quickly. "Weren't you the one who told your guards to investigate him?"
Zahra cut in softly,
"Then stop talking. He's looking this way."
Aisha spun around instantly.
"Quick—pretend to be busy!"
They stood before the astronomy shelves, opening and closing books as if deeply absorbed in calculating the movements of the stars.
From a distance, Faris observed them, a slight curve at his lips, his chin resting against his fingers.
But Aisha did not see him.
What she felt instead was a strange unease—like a premonition that their days in Baghdad would not remain calm forever.