The fire does not run.
Mumin repeats this to himself, as the Fajr adhan echoes a second time from the mosque. The muezzin's voice is thick, heavy—as if swallowing all the exhaustion of the world as he calls out.
"Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar…"
Mumin lies there. Sweat still clings to his body. The pillow is wet. But he cannot move. His body feels like it's made of lead. His eyelids heavy. No, not sleep—this is something else. Not fatigue, but a kind of numbness.
The running away never ends. Even after escaping a dream, waking up begins.
He looks at his phone. The screen is lit. A notification. No, not a message. A gallery suggestion. Some app is reminding him—what happened on this day?
He doesn't click. He doesn't know why. His hand just moves.
The picture appears.
Zara.
She is smiling. That picture—last year, late at night while playing a game, Zara had sent it. She had said, "Look, how my city looks in the morning."
A blue door in the background. That Moroccan blue, the kind that exists nowhere else in the world. Zara wore a black burqa, a hijab over her head. Only her face visible—two eyes, a small nose, and that smile. Light in her eyes—that light that once made Mumin say to himself, "Do you really believe becoming a superhero in real life is possible?"
What had he said?
He said, "I believe. Brave. They're just like us."
Zara had laughed. She said, "Do you want to be one of them?"
Mumin had not answered. Could not.
Now, staring at the picture, his eyes fill with tears. Zara… the girl for whom fire burns inside his chest every day. The girl he cannot forget for even a second. After the Fajr adhan, in the noon sun, in the darkness of night—always Zara. Her smile. Her words. That one message—"Miss you."
Three months. Fifty-two days. One thousand nine hundred twenty-nine hours. Which is correct? He has been counting. Every day counting. Because keeping track makes it clear how slowly time passes.
A misunderstanding. Some harsh words. Then silence. Zara never replied again. Mumin has sent messages repeatedly—"I am sorry," "Please reply," "I don't understand anything." No answer. Just one tick, then two. Read, seen—silence.
He wants to see her. Go to Fez. But there's no way. No money. No passport. No courage. Because if he meets her, what will he say? "I'm not crazy, it's just that someone talks in my head?" No, that cannot be said.
He hasn't told anyone else about this. He had friends once. But now, none. He pushed everyone away. Because people don't understand when you say, "Someone else lives in my mind." Yet no one does. Just thoughts, so loud they can be heard in the ears.
Mumin slowly sits up. The third call of the adhan has begun. Now, the Tahiatul Wudu. He hasn't done wudu. But he must get up.
He places both feet on the floor. Cold tiles. This cold is real. He is certain.
He goes to the bathroom. Turns on the tap. Water falls on his hands. He washes three times. Cups water. Rinses nose. Washes mouth. Hands again. Wipes head. Washes feet.
At every moment, he tells himself—this is real. This water is real. This cold is real. The fire is not real.
But then why does the fire feel as hot as burning in his hand?
He looks at the mirror. A boy stands there. Dark circles under his eyes. Beard uneven. Hair messy. Shoulders slumped. Fear in his eyes.
He knows this boy. This is Mumin.
But in the corner of the mirror, someone else stands?
He turns. No one.
Just wet footprints on the floor. His own.
He must go to the mosque. The path is very close. Five minutes' walk. But today it feels long. Because along the way, one sees many things. Seeing people means speaking. Speaking can lead to saying something wrong. Saying something wrong can reveal that you are different.
He puts on shoes. Opens the door. Feels the outside air. Not winter, but this morning air carries a kind of shiver. No one on the street. Only a dog sitting in the distance. Watching Mumin.
He starts walking.
In the rhythm of his steps, a question floats in his mind—Who are you?
Where does the question come from? He doesn't know. But it haunts him. Because who is he, really?
He was born one night. His father used to say, "When you were born, it was raining outside. Torrential rain. We thought we wouldn't even make it to the hospital that day."
His mother used to say, "I named you Mumin. Your father wanted another name. But I said, let him be a true believer."
Walking, Mumin thinks—am I truly Mumin? I fear Allah. But do I love? Or do I only fear?
As a child, he was foolish. The class teacher said, "Nothing goes into Mumin's head." But everything did. Just space was too wide. Simultaneously, the lessons and the world of imagination. There he could fly. There he was Musa. Who would grow up, show that becoming a real-life superhero is possible. Who would prove—we can all be heroes of our imagination.
But growing up, he saw—the world does not change. People do not change. Only fatigue increases.
He arrives at the mosque gate. Places his shoes on the rack. Feet on cold marble. Inside, the adhan ends. Now, the iqamah begins.
He enters. Some people inside. No one looks. All absorbed in themselves. Mumin stands in an empty space. Straightens his line.
Then he remembers—
The first day he learned to pray as a child. His father sat beside him. Said, "When you stand before Allah, remember, you are alone. Just you and Allah."
Mumin asked then, "Abbu, does Allah hear my thoughts?"
Father said, "He does. And He knows what you think."
Mumin thought—then Allah knows I want to be Musa. And He knows I cannot.
Today he stands in the mosque. Eyes closed. Before Allah. Alone.
Suddenly, another voice in his head—Musa's voice. It says, "You can do it. I will help you."
Mumin frowns. No. Imagination. Be silent. Pray.
But Musa speaks again, "Why are you running? I am with you."
Tears fall from Mumin's eyes. He begins his prayer.
"Allahu Akbar"—
He folds his hands. The world slowly aligns. No fire. No devil. No Zara. Only Allah and him. Only standing in this moment. No fight. No running. Just sujood.
He goes into sujood. Head touches the ground. Cold earth. Real earth.
Whispering, he says, "Ya Allah… I want nothing. Just a little peace. Just to be certain—I am not crazy. And Zara… let her understand a little… how much I love her."
No answer comes. Allah is silent.
But Mumin knows—this silence may be the greatest answer.
Because when Allah is silent, people hear themselves. And when they hear themselves, sometimes the truth emerges.
The truth is—Mumin doesn't know who he is. But until the prayer ends, he is just Mumin. Not the imagined Musa. Not Zara's lover. Not a failed dreamer. Just a servant, crying in sujood.
Prayer ends.
Everyone slowly leaves. Mumin remains in the last sujood. Cannot rise. Feet numb. Mind numb.
Finally, he gets up. The mosque is nearly empty. Only an old man sits in a corner, reciting tasbih. Smiles at Mumin.
The old man says, "Son, what you ask from Allah, you will receive. But before that, think if what you ask is right."
Mumin stops. He hasn't asked for anything. Only cried.
The old man continues, "What you have become, you have already become. Now just accept it."
Mumin says nothing. Just nods and walks out.
Outside, the sun begins to rise. A blend of orange and blue in the sky. Mumin stands. Phone buzzes in hand.
A message.
Unknown number.
"The fire does not run. Neither do you."
Mumin looks around. No one. Just the morning street. And the dog in the distance, still watching him.
Mumin cannot tell—real or imagination?
But the phone is real.
The message is real.
And the fire… is the fire real?
He begins walking home. But in his head, Musa is laughing.
Musa says, "See? You are not alone. I am here."
Mumin says loudly, "You are not. You are just my imagination. I created you."
Musa replies, "Then where is the line between imagination and reality, if imagination keeps you alive?"
Mumin stops. The words strike his mind.
He opens the phone. Types a message under Zara's picture—
"I think of you every night. I pray for you in every prayer. I don't know if you'll read this message. But I want you to know—I have never forgotten you. If you return, I am here. Always."
Finger hovers over send. Repeatedly. Moves away. Again.
Finally, he closes his eyes and clicks.
The message is gone.
Mumin looks up at the sky. Sun is rising. Night is over. But will the darkness inside him end?
Musa is silent.
But the dog in the distance still sits. Watching Mumin.
And it seems—the dog is smiling a little?
No. Surely imagination.
Surely.