A Few Days Later
The Residence of Al-Fadl ibn Sahl — Baghdad, 816 CE
Aisha had just descended the stairs when a female servant approached her, carrying a letter sealed with red wax, bearing a small mark from Tus.
"It arrived this morning, my lady. From Tus," she said respectfully.
Salma, who was pouring rosewater into a copper bowl, suddenly stopped. The movement was almost imperceptible—except to Aisha.
"Place it on your father's table," Salma said quickly.
Her tone was calm. Too calm.
Aisha looked at her mother.
"Tus isn't an ordinary place to send letters from, is it?"
Salma did not answer. Her hands moved again, but the tremor was not fully concealed.
"Not all words are fit to be kept in the heart of a young woman," she said without turning around.
The sentence lingered.
Aisha nodded, though the unease remained.
That night, as she stared at the seal without daring to open it, her eyes caught a small name beneath the official mark:
Fariha binti Malik al-Basriyyah.
Three Months Before the Move to Baghdad
The Residence of Al-Fadl —
--
Merv, Khurasan, 815 CE
Winter winds slipped through the tall windows. In the domed chamber, Al-Fadl ibn Sahl stood before a vast map of the Abbasid Caliphate. Advisors and officers surrounded him in silence.
A messenger stepped forward.
"Reports from the Jibal region. There are armed groups claiming loyalty to the Abbasids, rejecting al-Ma'mun's authority and raising the name of al-Amin."
Silence filled the room.
"They also mention your name," Qadhi Umar added carefully.
"Accusing you of holding too much power. Because of Khurasani blood. Because you are not from the Arab faction."
Al-Fadl stared at the map for a long moment.
"If strength is considered a sin," he said calmly,
"then weakness will be demanded as virtue."
No one objected.
--
Baghdad — At the Same Time
In the city's shadows, remnants of al-Amin's loyalists moved quietly. Mosques became spaces for whispered rhetoric.
"Will you accept a caliphate led by a foreigner from Khurasan?"
"Bayt al-Hikmah is not a house of knowledge, but a tool to erase Arab identity!"
Behind these cries, former generals and Baghdad merchants began to align. The name Abd al-Mu'tashim al-Kufi appeared in dark letters—directing resentment toward a single figure:
Al-Fadl ibn Sahl.
Two Brothers
In a pomegranate garden, Al-Fadl sat facing his brother, Al-Hasan ibn Sahl.
"Baghdad will not welcome me with prayers," Al-Fadl said.
"But refusing to go will only deepen their suspicion."
"I will stand there," Al-Hasan replied. "As a shield."
"And I," Al-Fadl answered, "will ensure Khurasan does not devour my own family."
They clasped hands.
But the world never cares for good intentions.
And family—
is always the most fragile point.
--
Indonesia, 2024
Whoever loves the world will be mastered by injustice.
And whoever chooses the Hereafter, the world will come to them in humility.
Ruqayyah chose the latter.
In the pesantren prayer hall before Maghrib, Rina approached her.
"Ruqayyah, you lead the prayer."
Ruqayyah lowered her gaze. Her body had not fully recovered.
"I'm sorry… I can't yet," she answered softly.
Rina turned away.
Whispers followed.
"Asked to step forward and she's too afraid."
"A leader, but weak."
"Only old in age."
Ruqayyah remained silent.
Her heart received everything.
The next day, in grade eleven, she saw Bela sitting beside Rina.
"I'm tired of her," Rina said loudly.
"It's like she's not even a leader anymore."
And Bela—who once always stood with her—smiled.
"Yeah. Me too."
The words shattered something inside Ruqayyah.
That afternoon, she prayed alone in a corner of the musholla.
In a long prostration, she whispered,
"O Allah… why does my heart hurt this much?"
Tears fell.
But with the tears, her heart leaned inward.
The world grew distant.
And Allah—
drew nearer.
--
Baghdad, 816 CE
Nearly a month had passed since the secret letter from Tus arrived. The house of Al-Fadl had grown unnervingly quiet—not peaceful, but as if it were holding its breath.
Al-Fadl frequently traveled back and forth to Khurasan on state affairs. Muhammad, his eldest son, had been dispatched to Egypt on a secret mission. Left behind were only Aisha, her mother, and the servants. Yet lately, even the servants spoke less and less. The air itself felt heavier—as though the walls were guarding secrets of their own.
That night, Aisha awoke early for qiyamul lail. As usual, she took ablution from the small water jar in her chamber. The Baghdad air brushed against her skin—cold and damp. Her steps were light as she walked down the corridor toward the lower hall to retrieve her mushaf.
Then she heard it.
Fast footsteps in the hallway.
She paused.
Slowly, she parted the thin curtain separating the staircase from the main corridor.
Two unfamiliar men—dressed like delivery laborers—had entered through the back door. One of them carried a large bundle wrapped in coarse sackcloth. But it was not water. Not bread. Not books.
Aisha's heart dropped.
Those movements were far too careful for a simple delivery.
Her instincts screamed, yet her mouth remained frozen.
She turned quietly, intending to run to her mother's chamber—but the marble floor echoed beneath her feet.
"HEY!"
One of the men snapped his head around.
Aisha ran.
Too fast.
She slipped at the edge of a carpet, her knee crashing hard against the floor. Before she could rise, a rough hand dragged her into a corner, clamping over her mouth.
She screamed. Bit his hand. Struggled.
But a brutal blow to her temple swallowed the world in darkness.
And the house returned to silence—not the silence of peace, but of disaster that had already taken root.
--
Islamic Boarding School, Indonesia – Afternoon
On the final day of the first semester exams, Ruqayyah was assigned to guard the kitchen. The task was simple: cooking rice over the stove.
She did not know that someone earlier had left a pot of water boiling and forgotten to turn it off.
She fell asleep, sitting upright.
And at that moment—
A small flame from beneath the kettle licked a hanging cloth rag.
Then—
BOOM!
A small explosion shook the kitchen. Fire leapt toward plastic containers and cooking oil.
Ruqayyah was thrown backward. Her shoulder burned lightly. Wood and shards of glass rained down on her. She remained conscious… for a moment.
Then everything went black.
--
The White Realm
Ruqayyah stood alone.
Dressed in pure white, her face calm though her eyes were filled with confusion.
She walked slowly. Her footsteps made no sound. There was no ground beneath her feet—yet she did not fall. Everything was silent… too silent.
"Is this… Barzakh?" she whispered.
She felt her chest. Her heart was still beating.
Yet there was no fear.
Only spaciousness… and surrender.
Then—
Footsteps.
Not soft ones. Panicked. Heavy.
Someone emerged from the white mist.
A girl.
Aisha.
But unlike Ruqayyah, she appeared frantic—breathing hard, eyes darting everywhere.
"What is this place?! Where am I?!" she shouted into the void.
"If this is some interrogation chamber, I won't say a word until you tell me who dared touch me!"
Ruqayyah flinched and stepped forward.
"Assalamu'alaikum…"
Aisha spun around. "Who are you?! Are you part of this?!"
"My name is Ruqayyah," she said calmly. "I'm not from here either. I… might be dead too."
Aisha glared. "What do you mean dead? I was just—"
She stared at her hands. "I'm still whole. No blood. No wounds. I am not a corpse!"
"I don't know," Ruqayyah replied softly. "But the last thing I remember… was the kitchen. Then something exploded. Am I… dead?"
Aisha paced restlessly. "Whatever. Listen carefully—I am Aisha bint Al-Fadl. Daughter of a vizier. If this is some jinn abduction, you will be executed!"
Ruqayyah studied her, then suppressed a smile.
"You talk a lot for someone who's confused."
Aisha whirled around. "Are you mocking me?"
"No," Ruqayyah shook her head. "I'm just trying to understand. This isn't normal—but I feel calm. Not like death. But not life either."
Aisha stepped closer. "Where are you from?"
"Indonesia. The year 2024."
Aisha staggered back. "Two thousand… what?"
"Two thousand twenty-four."
"You're lying," Aisha hissed. "No world is that old."
Ruqayyah sighed, gazing at the endless white.
"Do you think this is Paradise?"
Aisha scoffed. "Paradise? There are no rivers. No houris. And I do not feel happy."
"Then maybe it's not Paradise," Ruqayyah murmured.
"Maybe… it's a waiting room."
Suddenly, a voice—deep and gentle—echoed from nowhere, seeping directly into their souls:
"Two souls. Two eras. Two paths. One lesson."
Aisha stumbled back. "Who was that?! Show yourself!"
But Ruqayyah closed her eyes.
Warmth spread through her chest.
Then—
Images bloomed around them.
On one side—an Abbasid palace in Baghdad, fountains, servants bowing in reverence.
On the other—a narrow pesantren path, a swing beneath a tree, girls in worn prayer garments reciting Qur'an.
Aisha stared, stunned.
"Are these… memories? But that isn't my life…"
"That's mine," Ruqayyah whispered.
"You're truly from the future?" Aisha swallowed.
"And you," Ruqayyah replied gently, "are history I once read about."
Aisha frowned. "Then how do we understand each other? What language is this?"
Ruqayyah froze. "I… I'm speaking Indonesian. But I understand you."
"And I understand you too," Aisha said slowly.
"This isn't Arabic—but I grasp every meaning."
The voice returned, deeper now:
"The language of the heart is not bound by time. And souls are tested through lives they do not recognize."
They stared at one another.
For the first time, Aisha said nothing.
Fear—not anger—filled her eyes.
The mist began to rise. Warm light descended like glowing dew.
The voice came again, no longer just heard—but felt:
"You will awaken. But not with your own names.
Not in places you recognize.
Live as one another—until you understand the meaning of the destiny you resent."
Aisha stepped forward. "No—don't you dare tamper with my body—!"
The voice answered calmly:
"The body is only a vessel. The soul is what is tested."
Sometimes life changes when we are unprepared.
But what if what changes… is who we are?
If you were them—what would you do?