Mumin opened his eyes somewhere between sleep and waking. The room was drowning in darkness. A faint strip of light from the streetlamp, filtering through the curtain, cut a pale line across the wall. Nothing else.
Then his gaze snagged on a corner of the wall.
A dot. Red. At first, he thought it was light. Maybe a car's headlight reflecting off the wall. But they were on the third floor. And in this dead silence of the night, there was no sound of any car.
The red dot moved.
Mumin's breath stopped. The dot began to grow, slowly. Right before his eyes, a flower of fire started blooming on the wall's surface. One petal first, then another. Gradually, silently, the fire spread itself.
The room's temperature seemed to spike. Goosebumps erupted on Mumin's skin. Sweat beaded on his forehead. Heat radiated from the wall, making the air thick and heavy—difficult to breathe. He lay frozen in bed. He couldn't move.
A shadow stood inside the fire.
It was shaped like a person. Shoulders, a head—all there. But the fire burned only inside the shadow, leaving it a dark, hollow silhouette. The flames licked and danced, but there was no sound. No crackling, no roaring. The only thing breaking the silence was the pounding of Mumin's own heart—thump-thump, thump-thump.
Two burning eyes sat in the shadow's head. They stared at him through gaps in the flames. Just stared. Mumin couldn't look away. Something inside his chest welled up, threatening to become a sob.
He whispered, "Who are you?"
No answer. The fire only grew larger. The wall was melting. Beneath the peeling plaster, bricks emerged—and they were burning too. The ceiling cracked and split, and fire began to pour down like a waterfall. The floor beneath him was turning soft under an invisible weight.
Survive.
The thought finally jolted his body into action. He lunged from the bed, landing on the floor—it was hot. No time for slippers. Barefoot, he sprinted towards the door.
Behind him, the fire had spread across the entire wall. Its hungry tongues reached out, advancing. Mumin didn't look back. He knew—those who look back are the ones the fire catches.
His breath was failing. A sharp pain stabbed his chest. His lips were parched, his limbs trembling. He grabbed the doorknob—it was hot. He didn't let go. He twisted and pulled the door open, stumbling onto the balcony.
The stairs. He had to go down.
But at the stairwell, he froze. Fire was rising from below too. Climbing the walls, creeping up the railings—slowly, but with terrifying certainty. He glanced back. The fire had left his room and was now consuming the balcony.
Fire everywhere. Only fire.
He ran to the far end of the balcony. The only option was to jump from the window. But from this height, would he survive? The fire would burn him to ashes before he even hit the ground.
Then he saw it. A room to his left. Its door was open. Inside, there was only darkness. Behind him, fire. Ahead, darkness. He chose the darkness.
Inside, he realized it was some kind of storage room. Old, forgotten things. A broken almirah. A rusted iron bed. A thick layer of dust on the floor.
He kept running.
Behind him, the fire had reached the doorway. It was inside now. The silent flame finally found its voice—a low, hungry roar. Whoosh-hiss-crackle.
Mumin screamed, "Is anyone there?"
No one answered.
He pushed past the bed, shoved the almirah aside. The fire was close now. The heat was searing his back. He could smell his own hair burning.
Then—
His foot slipped.
There was a hole in the floor. Had it been there before, or did it just appear? He had no time to think. He was falling. His arms and legs thrashed, grasping for anything—a wall, something. His hands found only emptiness. Just the fall.
Below him, only darkness. An endless, bottomless dark.
As he fell, time seemed to stop. He couldn't tell if he was falling or rising. He lost all sense of direction. He closed his eyes.
When he opened them, he realized—he had caught himself. No, he wasn't falling. He was jumping.
Suddenly, everything stopped.
His body jolted.
His eyes snapped open.
Dark room. The ceiling fan was spinning. His pillow was soaked with sweat. His heart was still racing. He looked around slowly—no fire. The wall was cold. Pale morning light was seeping through the window.
From a distance, the Fajr adhan drifted in—
"Allahu Akbar... Allahu Akbar..."
Mumin lay back down. He closed his eyes. Relief washed over him. It was just a dream.
But why did his hand still feel warm?
He slowly opened his palm. Empty. Nothing.
Yet, he was afraid.
Because the fire hadn't caught him today. But he knew—the fire hadn't been chasing him. He had just been running. Fire never runs. Fire only burns. It waits. And tomorrow night, it will burn again.
Mumin knew. This wasn't the end. This was only the beginning.