It was just past three in the morning when she stepped out into the courtyard.
The sky above Madina was a deep, endless navy, scattered with quiet stars that seemed closer here than anywhere else. The air was cold and wide, wrapping around her like a silent prayer. A few people stood under the soft glow of the lights, bowed in Tahajjud. Somewhere, a child’s sleepy giggle echoed — this city never truly slept.
She lifted her tear-filled eyes towards the Gumbad-e-Khazra — the Green Dome. Her lips trembled as her heart whispered names only her soul knew.
Noor ul Ain — Aina — turned to face the Qibla. She laid down her prayer mat, lifted her hands, and softly said, "Allahu Akbar."
Tears welled up as she folded into sajda. Her forehead pressed the cold marble, her voice cracked as she recited, "Subhana Rabbi al-A'la" — Glory to my Lord, the Most High — three times. She raised her head, then lowered it again, losing herself to her Rabb.
When she ended her prayer with salam, she stayed where she was — forehead on the ground, palms open, heart poured out. She wept, her whispers carried by the breeze: "Ya Allah, you are the most Merciful, Ya al-ghaffar-ul-Rahim, Papa ki tabiyat thik karde maula, Tere Huzoor Pak ke Darbar me hu maula, humere pyare aaka, Hazrat muhammad mustafa Salallahu Allahi vasallam ke waste se papa ko nayi zindagi dede ya rabb-e-Mustafa, Tu to rahman hai, Ya Al-Fattah, Ya al-azim, Ya Al-Ghaffar humare Gunao ko maaf farma maula, Ya allah huzoor e pakk ke waste se mere papa ko thik karde maula, Ya Rasool e pakk, aap to Allah ke pyare haina, Aapke waste se mere papa ko thik karwa de na please. Ya Allah, muje usse milwa de maula, ab nhi ho Intezaar – Kuch karam kar Ya malik, beshak tu har chiz per Qadir hai Ya Allah, koi nishani de Malik"
(Ya Allah, You are the Most Merciful… Ya Al-Ghaffar, forgive our sins… Ya Rabb-e-Mustafa, please heal my Papa. I stand here in the courtyard of Your beloved Prophet ﷺ — for his sake, grant my father new life. Ya Rasool Allah ﷺ, You are so dear to Allah… please, for your sake, make my Papa well… Ya Malik, Ya Rahman, Ya Fattah — open a way for us. I can’t wait anymore, my Lord. Give me a sign…)
As her words fell, so did the rain — gentle at first, then faster, washing over her cheeks and mixing with her tears. A small, breathless smile curved her lips. She closed her eyes, letting the rain touch her, the marble cooling her skin. Her heart unclenched — her Rabb had answered.
She raised her head from the ground and turned back to the Green Dome. Her eyes were red and swollen, her face pale but soft in the moonlight — like it glowed from a light inside. She was still talking — to her Rabb, to His beloved Messenger ﷺ — telling Him how tired she was, how much she missed him.
Around her, people wept too — some raising their hands, some whispering duas under the falling rain. Children laughed and ran barefoot, catching raindrops as if catching mercy itself. In this courtyard, no one cared for the world — only for their Lord.
Some say Paris is the city of love. They’re wrong. Madina is the city of love — the love of Rasulullah ﷺ.
She felt the wind shift — colder, sharper, brushing past her like a memory. She stilled when she sensed it: a familiar presence, a warmth she’d carried in her heart for years. His scent. His ittar — the one she’d given him long ago.
She turned. But the space was empty.
Disappointment flickered in her eyes, but she breathed out, turned back to the Green Dome, and whispered to her Rabb again: telling Him how tired she was, how much she wanted to see him — her Zain.
She wiped her tears with her palm. She sat there for more than half an hour, letting the rain soak her clothes and wash her sorrow. When the rain softened but the wind stayed cold, she finally folded her prayer mat. She was about to rise — her heart holding one last hope — when she froze.
There he was. The one she’d begged for. The one she’d prayed for.
Her honey-brown gaze met his ocean-blue eyes. A shiver ran through her. Was this real? Was she dreaming? But when he stepped forward, the marble echoing under his feet — she knew.
She ran. She ran straight into his arms. She didn’t care who saw. She didn’t care about the world. The courtyard blurred — all that mattered was him. She buried her face in his chest, her arms wrapped tight around his shoulders. He bent slightly, resting his chin on her head. His arms came around her, warm and safe.
She burst into sobs — her voice shaking between words: "Zain… Papa… Papa got a heart attack… we had to… to admit him… Zain, I… I…"
The rest broke inside her throat. The pain, the fear — all poured out.
"Shh… Allah will take care of everything, Noor," Zain whispered. He cradled her head in his hand, his other arm firm around her back. He didn’t hush her tears — he let her cry. He knew her heart needed this. And he was here now — just like she’d asked.
Flashback:
One month ago, in Helsinki, Finland.
A man in a black blazer stepped through the glass doors of his office — his ocean-blue eyes scanning the room, his light brown hair brushing the edge of his ear. Everyone got up to greet him. He carried an aura that never went unnoticed — calm, sharp, untouchable.
He was a man of few words. Strictly disciplined about his work, he hated when anyone from his professional life dared to cross the line into his private world. Some called him rude — but to him, he was just silent. He observed more than he spoke, and it was that quiet mind that made him one of the most respected businessmen in Finland — and one of the top names across Asia.
"Unless it bothers my personal life, I don’t care." That was his line. His shield.
As he entered the meeting room, the soft shuffle of people standing up filled the space — every breath held a moment longer, every eye following him with respect he’d earned through years of ruthless hard work.
People spoke, slides flickered, numbers flashed on screens. He didn’t interrupt once. He sat there — pen between his fingers — studying every gesture, every hesitation. When the last person finished speaking, he placed the pen down, unbuttoned the bottom of his blazer, and brushed a hand through his hair. Then he stood up — calm but commanding.
"I got it. But here’s where you went wrong."
His voice was polite — measured — but no one missed the way his words cut straight to the point. One by one, he pointed out their mistakes, not to shame, but to sharpen.
"I know we aren’t perfect. We’re human — we make mistakes. What matters is we fix them. I think we should this meeting here, Thank you for your time. You all can leave now."
They nodded — relief on their faces — and left with quiet smiles.
He watched them go, then walked to the tall glass window overlooking the city’s cold skyline. He picked up a bottle of water, twisted the cap, and took a slow sip — his eyes distant, seeing something far beyond Finland’s gray sky.
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That's it for the first chapter ʚɞ
How's it? Well as a first chapter it might have some mistakes, but as he said, "We are humans – we make mistakes, what matter is we fix them" right!!
So Please vote and comment, Will meet you soon 𝜗𝜚
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