The soft echo of the adhan faded into a reverent stillness, like the masjid itself was holding its breath.
Ayaan stood a moment longer near the microphone, allowing the final "Allahu Akbar" to settle into the bones of the earth.
The late afternoon sun filtered through the high arched windows of the masjid, casting golden shafts of light across the smooth marble floor.
Maulana Idris, standing nearby, gave a gentle nod. "Lead the salah now, my child."
Ayaan stepped forward. This was the first time he would lead the jama'ah since returning to this old town, where every corner whispered fragments of his forgotten past.
The men lined up behind him, and as he raised his hands, time seemed to still.
"Allahu Akbar."
His voice echoed with a calm that surprised even him.
Surah Al-Fatiha:
Al-ḥamdu lillāhi rabbil 'ālamīn
(All praise is for Allah—Lord of all worlds,)
Ar Raḥmāni Ar Raḥīm
(The Most Compassionate, the Most Merciful,)
Māliki yawmi ad dīn
(Master of the Day of Judgment.)
Iyyāka na'budu wa iyyāka nasta'īn
(You alone we worship and You alone we ask for help.)
Ihdināṣ ṣirāṭal mustaqīm
(Guide us on the Straight Path,)
Ṣirāṭ alladhīna an'amta 'alayhim
(The path of those You have blessed,)
Ghayril maghḍūbi 'alayhim walā ḍ ḍāllīn
(Not of those who have earned Your anger, or gone astray.)
He paused before reciting Surah Duha.
Surah Ad-Duhaa (93:1–11):
Wa ḍ Ḍuḥā
(By the morning brightness,)
Wa al-layli idhā sajā
(And by the night when it grows still,)
Mā wadda'aka rabbuka wa mā qalā
(Your Lord has not forsaken you, nor has He detested you.)
Wa la'l-ākhiratu khayrun laka mina al-ūlā
(Indeed, the Hereafter is better for you than the present.)
Wa lasawfa yu'ṭīka rabbuka fa tarḍā
(And your Lord will give you, and you will be satisfied.)
Alam yajidka yatīman fa-āwā
(Did He not find you an orphan and shelter you?)
Wa wajadaka ḍāllan fa-hadā
(And He found you lost and guided you,)
Wa wajadaka 'ā'ilan fa-aghnā
(And He found you in need and enriched you.)
Fa-ammā al-yatīma fa-lā taqhar
(So do not oppress the orphan,)
Wa ammā as-sā'ila fa-lā tanhar
(Nor repulse the beggar,)
Wa ammā bini'mati rabbika fa-ḥaddith
(But proclaim the blessings of your Lord.)
Each word struck like a chisel to stone—carving peace into the hearts behind him. When he finally uttered the tasleem, the congregation responded in perfect unison.
"As-salamu 'alaykum wa rahmatullah."
("Peace be upon you, and the mercy of Allah.")
The last rays of sunlight faded behind the tall minaret, leaving the masjid bathed in a dusky hue. The prayer had ended, but something sacred still clung to the air—a silence that didn't press, but embraced.
Ayaan remained seated on the soft prayer mat, fingers curled loosely around the string of tasbeeh beads, though he didn't count them. He was still. Thoughtful. The kind of stillness that came not from peace, but exhaustion—a soul too full of unsaid words and old memories.
Beside him, Maulana Idris sat with calm patience, his wrinkled hands resting gently on his knees. The elder's face was turned toward the mihrab, but his attention was unmistakably on the boy—no, the man—who had once run barefoot across these marble floors.
"You know," Maulana Idris began gently, his voice low and full of warmth, "I've led many young men in their first prayer. But today... today felt different. In a good way."
Ayaan glanced at him, one brow slightly raised. "Different? How so?"
The elder's lips curved into a faint, knowing smile. "You recited like someone who carries wounds in his chest... and also trust in his Lord. Both. Together."
Ayaan gave a shadow of a smile. "Maybe because both are true."
They sat in a moment of reflective silence, the cool marble beneath them grounding their presence, while the faint scent of rosewater still lingered in the air from their ablution. The masjid's high ceilings caught the dimming light of Maghrib, casting long, solemn shadows.
"You remind me so much of your father," the Maulana said, his tone softened with memory. "But there's something else in you too. A kind of searching. I used to see it in your eyes even when you were just a boy."
Ayaan looked down at his hands, slowly turning the worn beads of his tasbeeh between his fingers. "I've been searching for a long time, Maulana. Sometimes, I don't even know what I'm looking for anymore."
The Maulana watched him carefully, then leaned in just a little and asked in a low voice, "Is it about 'her' ?... about your nikah?"
Ayaan froze. The coolness of the floor seemed to seep into his bones. His breath caught, his shoulders tightening slightly.
"Yes," he said at last, quietly. "It is. And that is something I could never forget."
"You were barely fourteen," Maulana Idris recalled gently. "And she was very young—five years younger than you... Yet you loved spoiling her... with dolls, chocolates, storybooks, anything and everything that she ever wished or asked for..."
A smile flickered across Ayaan's face, touched with fondness. "I sure did everything that I could to keep her happy and she followed me around with her cute big eyes as if I was made of stars."
Maulana chuckled, a sound that echoed with nostalgia. "I still remember when she stood up to your Abbu (father)—called him a 'mean giant' when he told her she couldn't come to the masjid with you. Your mother laughed until she cried."
Ayaan closed his eyes for a moment, letting the memory warm the ache in his chest. "She was fearless. Bold in the way only children can be. And that's what I adored most about her. Sometimes I wonder... is she still like that now too?"
His voice dropped to a softer note. "She used to draw stars on her wrists with pen... or with mehendi. She'd say they were blessings from Jannah."
He laughed lightly. "She often made me draw them too. And if I did them wrong, she'd say, 'Do it again or Allah might get confused.'"
They both laughed, gently, a shared warmth in their eyes—a moment of joy suspended in memory.
"She cried once so hard," Maulana Idris added thoughtfully, "because you ignored her the entire afternoon. She came to me, tears in her eyes, asking what she did she do done wrong."
Ayaan's smile faded into something more tender. "I was fasting. She didn't know. She offered me a sweet and I shouted at her. Later that evening, I found her asleep under the jasmine tree, clutching my pencil."
His voice faltered for a second before continuing. "I carried her inside. Sat beside her for hours. I recited Ayat al-Kursi until she woke up."
The Maulana's gaze softened even more. Ayaan's voice was hushed now, almost reverent.
"She asked me that night if Allah would still love her if she broke a toy. I told her yes. She cried harder. I didn't understand then… but now I think she was afraid of being broken herself."
Silence fell again, deep and respectful. It wasn't empty. It was full of memory.
"And did you search for her, after all these years?" the Maulana asked, his words barely more than a whisper.
"I tried to find her, many times," Ayaan said suddenly. His voice carried the weight of years. "Years later. When I was older. I searched names, traced addresses, went through records. Her mother erased every trail. Like she never existed."
Maulana Idris nodded slowly, solemnly. "She came like a storm. Accused your family of brainwashing her daughter. She never asked the girl what she wanted. Just took her and left."
"She didn't know," Ayaan said bitterly, "that it was her ex-husband's mother who arranged everything. And what she arranged was something that I don't even want to say. my father just stepped in only to keep her safe. She didn't know that her daughter was happy here. Safe. Loved. She never let her say goodbye."
"You even ran after the car," Maulana recalled. "Barefoot. You collapsed near the masjid gate. We couldn't get you to move for hours."
Ayaan's gaze dropped. His voice became even softer. "I waited for days. Every evening, I sat on the steps, hoping she'd come back. She left her drawing book. Her little red hairclip. I kept them. I still have them. She also left a list of her relatives' old addresses. I tried following those leads… but they led to nothing. Moved houses. Lost names."
The elder closed his eyes for a moment, whether in prayer or grief.
"I used to braid her hair," Ayaan said after a long pause. "She'd sit cross-legged, demanding perfect braids with ribbons. If they weren't perfect, she'd undo them and scold me to try again."
Maulana chuckled again. "You had more patience for her than I'd seen in any grown men."
Ayaan's eyes glistened. "She wasn't just a girl. She was home. She was comfort. A feeling. And for those three months... she was mine."
"Some bonds defy time," Maulana said softly. "Do you think she's forgotten you?"
Ayaan didn't answer immediately. His silence stretched. Then: "Maybe. It's been more than a decade. She could be married by now. With someone else. Living another life. Maybe she forgot the boy who played with her, fed her with his own hands, and told her bedtime stories."
The Maulana placed a kind hand on his shoulder. "Or maybe she still whispers your name in her duas. Maybe she's waiting too."
Ayaan looked at him, startled by the hope. There was something raw in his gaze, something afraid to believe.
They sat like that for a while, the silence gentle, like a sacred space where memories rested.
Then, Ayaan spoke again, almost a whisper. "Maulana... I'll be leaving again."
The elder turned toward him. "So soon?"
Ayaan nodded. "I didn't plan it like this. A childhood friend is getting married. I can't miss it. He's like a brother. He also asked me to help with the preparations—his twin cousin sisters are coming back too, and he wants to renovate the house before the dawat."
Maulana nodded slowly. "That's a joy worth leaving for."
Ayaan smiled faintly. "After that, I'll visit my parents' and grandparents' graves. Then my uncle. He lives near Sialkot. I haven't seen him in years. He's not well, and… something inside tells me I need to go."
Maulana's gaze grew knowing. "And after that?"
Ayaan hesitated. Then looked up.
"I'll be working again. I've got a backlog of assignments, translations, journal submissions. Life doesn't pause for us."
"No," Maulana agreed. "But the soul sometimes demands we stop."
Ayaan's expression shifted—like the tide turning. "There's something else I've been meaning to do. Something important."
Maulana Idris straightened slightly. "Tell me."
Ayaan's voice lowered. "I want to find Masjid Al-Qamar."
The elder blinked, visibly taken aback.
"My great-grandfather built it," Ayaan continued. "North of here. Hidden. My father said it wasn't just a masjid. It was a sanctuary. A place where even jinn would come to listen."
"Masjid Al-Qamar," Maulana Idris repeated, like the name itself held power. "I've only heard of it in whispers."
"I found fragments in old journals. Sketches. He said it was sealed after something strange. No one knows what. He said it would only open again for the right heart, for the right reason."
Maulana grew quiet. Then he said, "And you believe you're that heart?"
Ayaan hesitated, eyes searching the dim ceiling. "I don't know. But I can't ignore it anymore. It's like it's calling me. Every time I close my eyes, I see a crescent moon carved in stone… an arched gate covered in vines. And something… waiting."
The elder's eyes grew thoughtful. "Then go. Search for it. But do so with sabr. Some doors are opened not with keys—but with prayers."
Ayaan bowed his head slightly, the beads in his hands now still.
"What if I find nothing?" he asked quietly.
"Then you'll still have found the path," Maulana said. "And maybe that's what the masjid was meant to give you. Not answers—but the courage to ask."
And in the stillness of the masjid, as the hum of the town faded behind them, Ayaan sat with that truth.
Not everything needed to be certain.
Some journeys were built on faith alone.
And some prayers were maps.
And they had just begun.