Chapter 1: The Silence After the Sin
From the novel: "Guided by the Light: A Journey Back to Allah"
They say the city never sleeps. But tonight, it felt like it died.
The neon signs still blinked, cars still rushed past, and the world moved on — but inside me, everything had gone quiet.
Not the peaceful kind of silence, no.
It was the kind of silence that roars inside your head after you've just done something you promised Allah you'd never do again.
I was sitting alone in a rooftop café, half-drunk, half-high, and fully miserable. My so-called "friends" had left an hour ago.
Laughter, smoke, dirty jokes, flashing lights — all of it had ended.
Now it was just me, a half-empty glass, and a storm in my chest.
My name is Zayd. I'm twenty-one.
Once upon a time, I was a hopeful boy with dreams of becoming a software engineer. My parents were proud.
I prayed Jummah with my father and cried during Qur'an recitations at Taraweeh.
That Zayd?
He died somewhere along the way.
I don't even remember when I stopped caring.
Maybe it was the first time I missed Fajr.
Or maybe when I skipped an exam to hang out with that girl.
Or maybe when I stopped talking to my mother unless I needed money.
Sins start small.
Then they grow — into monsters that drag you through hell while you're still breathing.
I looked at my reflection in the café window.
Red eyes. Greasy hair. A fake silver chain hung over my hoodie.
I didn't recognize myself.
My hands were shaking slightly, but it wasn't the cold.
It was guilt.
I had just committed a sin I swore I'd never repeat.
And yet here I was, dirtier than before.
Astaghfirullah.
I whispered it without meaning it. That's the worst part.
Even my istighfar had become automatic — like pressing "undo" on a phone.
I felt nothing.
I looked up at the sky. The stars were hidden behind a haze.
Maybe that's how my soul looked — cloudy, distant, covered in the smoke of my sins.
I remembered what my grandmother used to say:
"When you sin, a black dot appears on your heart.
If you keep sinning, the heart turns black, and you won't feel the pain anymore.
That's the real punishment — when you stop feeling anything."
Maybe that was happening to me.
I picked up my phone.
Instagram. Reels. Music.
A model is dancing. A meme. A joke about Jannah.
I scrolled like a robot.
Then came a reel of a boy reciting the Qur'an beautifully in a masjid.
I skipped it.
I couldn't bear to hear Allah's words with ears that just listened to filth.
Suddenly, my thumb stopped.
It was a short video — a simple white screen with bold black letters:
"If you died tonight, would you die as a friend of Allah or a friend of Shaytan?"
I froze.
I don't know why that line hit me so hard.
Maybe it was because I'd been thinking about death a lot lately.
Maybe because my cousin died in a motorbike crash just last week — and he was way better than me.
What if it were my turn next?
What if the Angel of Death was already on his way?
What if this were my last night on earth?
I shut the phone and placed it on the table, face down.
My heart was racing now. My mind was spinning.
I stood up, left some money on the table, and walked down the stairs.
Every step echoed like a warning.
I didn't know where I was going, but I knew I couldn't stay in that place anymore.
As I walked out into the cold night air, something in me whispered,
"Turn back before it's too late."