The waves of water slipped down his head, before he lightly clung his fingers around his ears in a circular motion before the sink basin that flowed out water- the darkness swelled outside at midnight, and then, after his wudu he made his way back to his room, pulling out a prayer mat.

In collective motions, glowing his heart that spilled to the skies seen by the angels as they wrote down his deeds that he especially took out time to give in the last quarter of the night. Tahajjud. Every word of supplication that escaped his lips as he cupped his hands in front of them, his eyes peacefully shut.

"Ameen, Ya Rabbul Alameen." Was the end of his dua, yet the beginning of his dua's acceptance- not now, but yet to be.

"Abu Jaan?"

His gaze snapped open and turning around to meet with a diligent girl's dark, concerned eyes. She was standing over him with a tray of dates and honey water. A kind smile took up her lips, as her starlit eyes flattered down. She kneeled down before her father, on his right side, and placed the tray at his knees.

"Here you go," she said with a sigh, wringing her hands back to steady on her lap, sitting there still.

Honey water cupped in one hand as he took light sips of it- enough to warm his insides after the emotions that had cradled out of his eyes for the well-being of his daughter, his work, and most importantly his Imaan.

Imaan was a person's first aid kit, in all situations, in ups and downs, in blossoming times, and dark-bloody paces. If Imaan was there, nothing can destroy the human's very effort to exist.

"What did you mention in your prayers- this time?" His daughter said, quietly- her gaze flitting cautiously at him.

"Your name." He answered, thudding the glass back on the tray- before running a hand down his beard. She still looked curious enough, but he just shook his head- patting her lightly on the shoulder. "More than even mine."

He saw the crinkles at the ends of her eyes, as she sobered a chuckle.

"Did you pray Tahajjud?" He asked.

"Yes, Abu Jaan," she heaved herself up to her feet, with the tray in her hands- her gaze firmly on the ground.

The doorbell rang.

His daughter stopped in her steps, her eyes widening. "Who could it be?" She turned over her shoulder to look at her father- whose frown deepened- not the shared confusion type of frown, but the knowing full-well-who-could-it-be type of frown

"I have a guest... Amber beti," he answered her back, as he followed her out of his bedroom towards the kitchen. Their house was small, just two rooms and an adjoined tv-lounge with an open kitchen. How big can a house be where only father and daughter live so completely?

"A guest?" Amber thudded the tray over the kitchen counter-top, her focused eyes swaying around her father who stood between the kitchen opening and the main entrance door. Her father seemed seriously mysterious.

"At this time? Father, I know you have such resolute friends from the masjid, you like sharing ibadah together, but... this is out of the way to come ringing the bell at 3:00 in the morning, right before fajr- you need a break. You socialize too much- have you seen the bags under your eyes yet?"

Her light scolds covering her concerns and care ranted on- her father shook his head not saying anything for a while, as he picked his phone from the counter tabletop when it buzzed.

"He messaged me, Amber, I- 'll explain later, then, okay? I'm bringing him in."

"I'm going to my bedroom," Amber replied smoothly, her hands reaching out for two green tea bags and two mugs. "You can serve him cinnamon tea and biscuits down the drawer. I don't understand this late-night meeting, Abu... can you please-"

The door thudded close and her eyes concernedly focused when she saw that he had already left.

Out of the house, he walked over to the gate and saw a shadowy figure through the spaces of his steel gate. The figure paced to and fro, in hurried, quick steps, and once he arrived at the gate door, unlocking it with a key, he pulled the door open. The figure stopped midway, turning swiftly and dropped his familiar, all-too-well, insecure eyes meeting his.

"Sir Rashid, I-"

"Let's talk inside, Musa," Rashid Murhani said, with gentleness as he pulled the gate door wider and beckoned Musa inside the small one-car porch.

Rashid Murhani, known for his friendliness and observant behavior- noted his student's expression so desolate and conserved. It was just an hour ago, he had received a text from Musa, that 'I'm coming over to your place. I am willing to speak up now.'

Rashid did not have anything against that late-night text. Most people would think it was crazy to allow a boy at Musa's age to escape his house and come rushing over to his college teacher, but Rashid Murhani knew full well what ideas occur in such young aching minds.

Wasn't it better to arrive at a decent teacher's doorstep for escapade than somewhere dark and gross littered all over, with the dark company? And when a child wants to speak, after being pushed down again and again to 'shut up' or, 'stay quiet' and they finally resort themselves to speak up, just as Musa's confession in the text was- why wouldn't Rashid, his teacher, hold out a hand, pat Musa's hand gently and say without any bush to hide behind, 'It is alright, son- it is alright.'

And that's exactly what Rashid said, as he and Musa sat across each other on the brown-plaid couches in the living room, with two cups of cinnamon tea spewing steam between them, and filling the air with sweet-and-striking-mint around the room.

There were no sounds. No words for a good while, just the wild ticking in the heart of Musa's, and Rashid noted it.

"I- I first of all, want to apologize for texting you at midnight, and coming over here like this," Musa rubbed his hands together awkwardly, his distorted gaze flitting here and there- his expression drowned in downright remorse.

"You have nothing to apologize for, Musa," Rashid replied, pushing the tray of cinnamon tea towards Musa in a gesture to take it- Musa, however, excused himself as Rashid added. "You can stay here till Fajr, or, even longer- whatever makes you feel at ease."

Musa nodded as if he was unnerved. There was a strange look to his eyes, Rashid could see the grey-tinted sights fogged with something so unlike Musa. For all the years Rashid had been teaching Musa the subject English, he always saw the unconditional confidence in the boy, smart-replies, and communicative ease for studies.

However, if there was one thing that stuttered Musa's smooth tongue- was his own self. Musa could not bring himself to talk about himself.

Not the reality anyways, not the cave that's dug deep in his soul, that is seen through his eyes, and gave away what the boy went through- like a warrior who would wear a belted-shirt to his wounds of his past battles.

Because how can one voice their pains?

"Now, tell me. Why did you leave like this?" Rashid voiced the question he had asked earlier in his prayer Allah to help him resolve.

Musa inhaled sharply, tapping his fingers together- his ears tinted red under the glowy, warm light of the lamp that hung above their heads. The atmosphere felt stuffed. There could have been noise, but no, there was just the spurring clock ticks, and the sounds of the soundless.

Like the stories.

The memories.

Musa saw too many of them.

Musa shook his head. "I'm broken."

"Then let me help you pick those pieces."

"But you won't know where to find those pieces."

"Do you know where to find those pieces?"

"If I did, would I be coming to you in the first place?" Musa retorted.

"Hmm.. the only solution I have Musa, is to retrace your steps- maybe you'll find the pieces along the way."

Musa scoffed, his gaze reddening. "Is going back to the past the only solution?"

Rashid lowered his gaze, eyeing the light from above glinting off the glasses of cinnamon tea.

"Sometimes, Musa..." His voice was deepening, like a crust void, and his eyes filled with hollowed, honey of brown rocks toppling down the river of Truth.

"We are left with only the past as an escape to fixing things."

"I don't believe you," Musa countered, shaking his head ardently. "I've come this far from the past, I've made myself, I've- I've run away."

"And do you feel at peace?" Rashid raised a brow, gesturing lightly. "Do you feel happy? Do you feel that after all this running, that you're finally breathing normally? The fact that it still hurts you Musa, is proof enough that you've not run away."

"It's not my fault, that it's coming after me now!" Musa had let out, his voice tightening.

+ Rashid's eyes widened at this sudden outburst, but nevertheless, he kept his lips pursed tightly.

Musa's vein was throbbing, his own momentum shattered- the fog he kept close to him to protect himself from being seen, from being sought, was completely blown away by his thunderous, accompanied by wildish winds of a voice.

"I run- I try so hard, I- I forgotten everything! Where I've come from, where my sister comes from- why was I sent to this hell- why did I have to face such obstacles in my way- why I had to be broken, thrown, time and time again- laughed at, mocked at, because I had no back to hold. Because I was useless! Don't you get it? No! You would never get it! You're loved, card, cherished, you're amazing- everyone loves Rashid Murhani!" Musa mocked at the end, shaking his head- his own eyes deterring the scars he felt of hatred. "And- and you know what? My sister? She comes back after so many years later!"

Musa's voice tightened, as he coughed a bit- his own eyes swelling. "She- she comes years later! After I've stopped hoping, stopped assuring myself, that someday, someone would come for me... all that was useless. All of that. I can't go back- I can't go back."

It was only then, Musa had quited down, his own voice ragged. His chest heaved up and down, and his head was dumped, as he stared at his own feet.

His voice was dry. "Yet its hard because I have no where else to run to."

Sometimes, there is this pocket. You keep pressing thoughts, words, into this pocket and it never seems to end. You keep pressing in more- thinking you can keep it in there, and it won't bother you, and that's the best thing you can do, to keep it in there, hidden and stuffed.

There's a point in one's life, when they realize they were fooling themselves all along.

And Musa, realized he was a fool.

He now stared down at his own sweaty palms- realizing this is where his 'careless' acting led him to, didn't it? It led him to feel too much, and kept bottling it up on the inside, that he literally had to throw out all these words at his own teacher.

Musa lowered his head, and racked his hair with his hands. His eyes were squeezed shut, and his head was throbbing in pain either of sleep, or, of helplessness.

He wished it to stop.

He wished his mind would just stop.

But no.

Stopping it all didn't help him this far, now did it?

His brows were creased and he could see placid, green eyes stare back at him.

It was only then, he heard a voice, a voice of soothing momentum- like a cold, chilly water flowing down in the middle of hot-searing desert.

He felt a hand on his shoulder, an encouraging tight grip of a wise hand. Musa snapped his eyes open, and he realized for the first time, that he had been crying.

Tears burnt his eyes, and he quickly looked away from Rashid's focused gaze- Musa grabbed the tissue, and blew on it.

What is wrong with me?

Maybe, Rashid was gold of a wise man. He knew when to speak at perfect timings.

And, maybe, he sensed it was now the right moment to speak up.

"Musa, from... what little I know of you- I know you're an intellectual boy- by far one of the toppers in my class. I had always been fond of you, not only of your grades, but of your attitude towards the teachers, and the little details you see around you- how you take interest in things that most students of mine find boring. You're a wonder, Musa, and yet, here I am surprised, that you haven't figured it all out yet?"

"Figured what out yet?" Musa repeated in a hushed mumble.

Rashid's gaze softened, and he sucked in a slow breath. "That the fact that your sister has come back after all this time- isn't it proof enough that she loves you?"

Perhaps, those words were too much for him to take- or, maybe it was the right fill, because he didn't know why he was being crashed over and over again in emotions he couldn't take.

He could hardly breathe.

His gaze flitted towards his backpack, and though his hands felt like heavy toys he picked up and were useless, somehow they zipped open his bag, and reached in for Zara's story notes' journal.

The journal laid in his lap, and as Musa opened it quietly- his dried eyes blinking down at her words again.

I'm here to write about the little I know of my brother, because he's my other half. He's my other fighter inside me.

He has a story I do not.

"She... wrote a bit," Musa flipped the pages, his eyes not moving from her words. "-a bit about me and... I somehow, got to it. And- this is all she wrote."

Rashid looked down at the journal in Musa's hands, his brows furrowed softly. "She wrote a bit about you? Like a letter?"

"No. It's- I think she was planning on writing a story about me," Musa's own gaze had looked away from the pages, and turned lostly to the night sky outside the window beside them- the foggy chilliness, showing on the screen.

"But she couldn't go further..."

"Why not?"

"Because, she doesn't know, now does she?" Musa smiled ironically- shaking his head. "We were apart for so long, how could she know what's my ending?"

"Ending?" Rashid's own lips took a sweet smile. "Or, do you mean ongoing?"

Musa's brow arched, though he did not say anything for Rashid had already explained it.

"I mean, don't you think this story is yours to finish now?"

If Musa was taken aback by those words, he did not know how to let it show, and yet not seem rude. "What?"

Rashid gestured at the journal in his hands. "That book in your hand, right now. This story that you keep mentioning, and the fact that you're sister has come after you all these years, only for you to have found an unfinished story, and decision of hers to write about you- don't you think, being the main character, it is your shot now to complete it?"

Musa blinked down at the pages- after about fifteen pages of her pretty handwriting, the rest of the journal was blank, empty, spared fresh.

Rashid continued.

"I know, Musa, at times, the best thing to do is leave the past behind, and move on forward. But that's only when it is suppose to heal you. But if you find that in this world some vital things are directing you to somewhere, to know, to find, to do- at times, it's best to do it as long as it's in the rightful Halal coverage."

Musa did not say anything for a good couple of seconds. He suddenly looked up, as if something sparked at him. "Like the heart?"

To his utter surprise, Rashid shook his head.

Musa frowned deeper, his head tilting. "The brain, then?"

Again Rashid shook his head.

"C'mon, what then?"

"The brain, the heart, and of course," Rashid smiled. "The Soul."

Wait- what?

Rashid had already gotten up to his feet at the finality of his statement when he added kindly: "Why don't you join me for prayer first?"

Musa's head snapped up at the mention of prayer. "P-prayer? I don't pray." Musa said, quickly.

Rashid did not look judgingly, a hand rubbing down his beard.

"The walls we pull up ourselves are the only obstacles to our peace." He said, nodding back at Musa before walking away leaving the latter stare back at him in the ordeal of his whole state shivering.

Musa looked back down at the journal in his hands, a million thoughts, a million questions, and a million possible answers driving here and there, taking u-turns and x-turns, till he came up with the conclusion of one thing only.

"I'll talk to her for sure," Musa muttered to himself- his voice hoarse. "I can't do anything but talk to her. I- I have to."

But little did he know, that the solace of the fajr's call to prayer ringing around the room, oozed him to close his eyes shut- he laid his head back, and as any undetterent of prayer, he fell asleep- sleep was deepening over his eyes, his heart was losing might to stay awake.

Just... a bit... of sleep.

Oh, if only he had gone to pray, oh if only he had answered his soul's call, he could've answered all the worldly questions in his existence.

Later on, at the streak of the sunlight cascading through the curtains through the gaps, laid on his shut eyes- stressing it to squeeze tighter, when the loud, hollow sounds of a vacuum driving up his ears nuts, Musa woke up- to see what all of this commotion was about.

Sleep in his eyes, but annoyance at it's height- for a minute there he had forgotten where he was, what happened last night, and what was going on?

Once the ear-brewing noise of the vacuum placed his senses back on good- his eyes dropped on a black-cladded head to toe creature, the fabric was even covering its face standing by the coffee table, pulling and pushing the vacuum over the floor.

"Finally, you're awake! Breakfast is on the table, Abu just left the house for some work, told me to tend to you till you leave."

Musa was then sure, he was dreaming. Maybe it was one of those double dreams, that you wake up in a dream, and then go to sleep, and find yourself in another dream- so Musa decided to close his eyes and drop his head back before-

"Your breakfast will run cold, sir, I think you should get up now."

Her voice was voluminously increasing in the buzzing sound of his head, and Musa, blurringly lowered his eyes at the flower-journal on his stomach.

Everything snapped back to his sense, and believe it, or, not because Amber suddenly couldn't- Musa jumped to his feet, grabbing his backpack and phone, shoving the book down the zipper, and pulling it over his shoulder. He peeked down at the time from the living room clock-

11:00 pm!

His heart-beat racing and his mind churning, he barely passed the woman in niqab a salam nor stopped by the breakfast-laid table for him, and shoved open the exit for and swinging it close he met the day's sunlight with a curse under his breath.

He just hoped Zara hadn't left already.

Asalamualaykum-

An update after what? A million years? Seemed like it to me! Anyways, this chapter almost brought me to tears. I was pretty sure I was going to cry through this, and had tk write it again and again to make sure it was good enough

Also, my Musa baby is finally FEELING 😍

Okay actually he always felt- but now he REALIZES it can I just say accepting your feelings is an accomplishment, and knowing that there's a problem inside you is a double milestone on this journey to a BEAUTIFUL you???

Questions. Questions. Questions.

Will Musa catch up to Zara? Will their story be completed? Or, will Amber eat the breakfast she made for Musa instead? The pancakes are running cold!

- e . a