chapter 8
> "No matter what life throws your way, never forget—
He stands with you. Call upon Him,
and He will answer with strength beyond your fears."
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Author's Voice
Alya stepped out of the bathroom, clothed now in simple cotton instead of bridal silks. The weight of her lehenga was gone, but the heaviness in her heart remained—a silent anchor. The lamp's glow trembled across the walls, as if uncertain what to illuminate.
Reyhan glanced up, expression unreadable, then turned back to the window. His voice, when it came, was distant.
> "Go to sleep."
Alya froze, clutching her dupatta. Memories of cold marble floors and harsh voices whispered in her mind:
> "You don't deserve a bed."
She knelt to place pillows on the floor—an instinct born of old cruelties—when his hand closed around her wrist. Firm, but not cruel.
> "Sleep on the bed," he said more softly. "I won't do anything. Just… sleep."
Fear trembled through her. Yet in that gentle insistence, she saw the first flicker of kindness. She nodded and climbed onto the vast bed, curling into itself at its edge.
Reyhan killed the main lights, leaving only the corner lamp's glow. He lay on his side, back to her, and silence settled heavy between them.
Alya closed her eyes, whispering into the hush:
> "Ya Allah… protect me."
Unknown to her, Reyhan stared at the ceiling, shadows playing over his features as he wondered which storms had carved her silence.
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Alya's POV
Soft whir of the air conditioner. My body stirs at the hour I always rose for Tahajjud. Habit can be a lifeline.
But tonight, I feel a presence beside me—warm, steady. A hand at my waist. Panic claws up my throat. Touch was never safe.
I tap his wrist, gentle as I can, until he stirs. His eyes open, confusion and sleep still clouding them. Then he realizes his hand rests on me and he pulls away as if burned.
I bolt upright and vanish into the bathroom, door clicking shut behind me. My heart pounds, every beat a prayer I dare not voice.
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Reyhan's POV
I wake to emptiness—her side of the bed cold. My hand feels wrong, as if it reached for something forbidden. In the dim glow, I admit to myself: I worry. Over a prisoner.
A gentle creak: the bathroom door opens. She steps out, hijab in place, eyelashes still damp from wudu. She stands hesitantly, unsure.
I clear my throat.
> "Prayer mats are in the second drawer."
Her eyes lift. In their quiet gratitude, something shifts inside me.
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Alya's POV
I cross the room on silent feet, find the drawer, and unfold the prayer mat. Facing the Qiblah, I begin.
Each sujood is a plea—to shed sorrow, to feel held. My whispered du'a sails into the stillness:
> "Ya Allah, I surrender to You."
Peace settles over me, even as tears darken my lashes.
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Reyhan's POV
I watch her from the bed—her raw devotion, the curve of her forehead pressed to the mat. It stirs a longing I cannot name.
Without thinking, I rise, perform wudu at the sink, then unfurl my own mat beside hers. I kneel, unsure, heart hammering.
We pray in silent harmony under the same night sky—two wounded souls seeking the same mercy.
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Author's Voice
In that shared darkness, words were unnecessary. Their sujoods spoke of broken pasts and unspoken fears. Under starlight and whispered prayers, two strangers found a fragile bridge—faith—upon which healing might one day begin.
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