Chapter 157
Her fingers brushed the small pocket hidden behind the fold of her abaya—the same remote, the only bridge between the two identities they would wear in vastly different times.
There were no visible signs of anything unusual yet.
Only a vast date palm grove stretched out before them, its trunks rising like ancient pillars, their shadows shortening as the sun slowly climbed, and the wind occasionally carrying sounds from the city—the creak of wooden gates opening, the low grumble of camels, the hum of life still continuing as normal.
But Nirma knew this calm was an illusion.
She took a deep breath, letting the scent of dry earth and palm fronds fill her lungs, then glanced down at her own clothing.
A dark blue abaya that would help her blend into the shadows, a khimar that allowed her to lower her gaze and avoid recognition too quickly, and the white bandage on her right hand that was not only a disguise but also preparation—because in a place like this, a woman who appeared ready to tend wounds was the least suspicious sight of all.
"You," Arya said suddenly, half-joking, "look way too prepared for this."
Nirma turned her head slightly, one brow lifting beneath the shadow of her veil.
"And you," she replied flatly, "look like a muhajir who just got off a camel after a long journey."
Arya smiled faintly, shifting his leather sandals—his na'al—against the sandy ground.
"At least we won't be driven away before the battle even begins."
Nirma didn't return the smile, but at the corner of her lips, there was a faint curve that vanished before it could be called one.
The silence had just begun to settle between them when suddenly a dull thud echoed, accompanied by the snap of dry twigs—and from behind a low-hanging palm branch, a young boy fell.
His body hung in the air for a split second before Nirma moved without thinking.
Her right hand reacted instantly, the white bandage wrapping her palm and wrist catching the boy's arm right at the elbow, stopping him from hitting the rocky ground.
The boy jolted in shock, his eyes wide with fear, but Nirma didn't let go—instead, she pressed several points along the bandage with movements that looked like tending to a wound, though beneath the fibers of the cloth, cellular healing technology had already begun working, spreading into the scraped skin caused by his fall against the palm trunk.
Arya, who had stepped forward, stopped as he realized everything had happened in mere seconds—too fast to prevent or conceal.
The boy stared at his own arm in disbelief, the red abrasions on his forearm gone as if they had never existed.
"Careful, child," Nirma said softly, lowering her tone to sound like an ordinary woman in the markets of Madinah rather than a guardian of time, "be careful when climbing."
The boy nodded quickly, still stunned, then ran off without a word—not toward spreading news, but toward a woman who had just emerged from behind a cluster of palm trees to the south.
She was his mother.
A woman with faint lines beginning to form on her forehead with age, her headscarf tied simply behind her head, walking hurriedly with a cloth covering her chest and one hand still holding a small bucket woven from palm fronds.
"Abdullah!" she called, half-whispering, half-anxious, and the boy immediately hid behind her garment while pointing at Nirma with his small finger.
Nirma felt a faint pulse at her temple.
Not out of fear, but from the realization that the bandage on her right hand had just done something far from ordinary for this era.
But before she could come up with an explanation, the woman was already standing before her, staring at her bandaged hand with eyes no longer filled with worry—but with something deeper.
"You… healed him," the woman said, her voice low yet profound, like someone who had just witnessed something beyond reason.
Arya stepped closer, positioning himself slightly behind Nirma, but the woman paid him no attention.
Her gaze remained fixed on Nirma, on the white bandage on her right hand, and then on the now-vanished wound on her child's arm.
"It was only a small scratch," Nirma replied flatly, trying to neutralize the situation.
"It's nothing to make a fuss about."
But the woman shook her head, and unexpectedly, both her hands rose—not to accuse, but to pray.
"May Allah protect the hands that bring healing," she whispered, her voice trembling among the gently swaying palm leaves.
"May Allah place you among His beloved who are granted karomah."
Nirma fell silent.
Arya, standing behind her, could see her shoulders relax slightly.
Not out of relief, but from realizing that what had happened here would not become the problem they had feared.
The woman stepped closer, lowering her voice even further.
"In Madinah, we know… those who can do such things are not sorcerers. No. They are people whose hearts are so close to the Messenger that Allah grants them such gifts as a sign."
Her eyes looked at Nirma with unwavering conviction.
"I will not report this to anyone. That is my promise."
Nirma nodded slowly, just a small nod, while Arya behind her let out a long breath that was almost inaudible.
"Thank you," Nirma finally said, her voice soft but firm.
"We will remember your kindness."
The figures of the woman and her child had long merged into the southern palm grove, leaving only faint sandal prints in the sand that were slowly erased by the wind.
Yet Nirma remained standing in the same place, her right hand loosely clenched before her chest, her gaze fixed in the direction they had left with an expression Arya recognized as buried regret.
"Reflex," Nirma murmured at last, her voice softer than the breeze slipping through the palm fronds.
"I shouldn't have used that in front of a child."
She raised her hand, looking at the white bandage that now appeared innocent—yet within it was technology from the year 2222 that had just healed a wound before the eyes of a boy who should have only known that such scratches would dry and heal on their own within three days.
Arya stepped closer, now standing beside her, and for a few seconds he remained silent, letting the morning wind replace the unspoken words.
"In Madinah," he said slowly, his gaze directed toward the city beginning to stir beyond the hills, "people witness small miracles every day. They call it karomah, not magic. And that boy… he will simply grow up with the story that he was once touched by a righteous woman whose hands brought healing."
Nirma let out a quiet scoff.
Not because she agreed—but because she knew Arya was trying to calm her with logic she herself understood.
"We'll only be here for a few days," Arya continued, adjusting the position of the rida on his shoulder that had shifted slightly in the wind.
"A small incident like this won't change anything. Not history. Not the timeline. Not the foundation."
He turned to Nirma, and for the first time that morning, a faint smile appeared on his face—not a mocking one, but one meant to break down the wall of regret she had begun to build.
"Besides, our goal isn't to be completely unseen, is it? We just need to not be seen as a threat. And now, thanks to your reflex, we look like… good people."
To be continued…