The Morning After
Wherever she goes, I pray she finds me there — waiting.Someone must have crafted her with an abundance of love and care, because I doubt the world could ever offer another soul with such grace, mischief, and light.
My life had once been a kite — tethered, steady, safe. Then she appeared, not to hold the string but to cut it, to let me drift where the wind dared to take me.
She marvelled at the smallest things: the laughter of children outside the subway, the scent of rain on stone, the way a stray cat curled at her feet as if it had known her forever. Her smile was sunlight breaking through cloud. Even when she stood face-to-face with death, she smiled — not in fear, but in surrender. As though she had finally found her way home.
She gave her life to save mine. Loved me enough to trade heaven for another heartbeat of this world. And the night I lost her, I felt the same fire that consumed her ignite within me — burning through the soul, not the skin.
Our love was like sand in an hourglass — each grain slipping faster than we could hold. She was both my sunrise and my moonlight, her face the very shape of peace.
May the angels sing her praises louder than I ever could.May the Lord grant her a paradise worthy of her soul.
The Adhān broke the silence — a sound like silk torn through the dawn, calling the world to rise.Its echoes wove through my memories like threads of gold in dark cloth.
I've grown used to waking alone. Yet every dawn feels like a rebirth — the air washed clean, the sky pale with mercy, the silence between the verses heavy with remembrance.When I stand before the mirror, I no longer see only myself. Her reflection lingers in mine — a faint outline, a soft gleam behind my shoulder, as if she's standing there still.
When the heavens called her, she ascended with the calm of an angel returning home.And here I remain — earthbound, stubbornly mortal — learning to honour her through every breath and every prayer.
"Live for me," she once whispered.Those words haunt me like a vow that never expired."I can't change your heart, Aubrey," she'd said, her palm resting over mine, "only the Lord can guide it."Her voice was always a blade wrapped in silk — gentle, but it cut straight through.
Though she is gone, she left behind a light — quiet, indestructible — that still burns within me.
Her scent lingers in the linen, faint and stubborn. Her toothbrush stands by the sink, untouched. Her shoes rest near the door, forever waiting. Every corner of the apartment hums her name. Every silence is her echo.
We dreamed of summers and springs and endless golden days, but we only survived one winter. And when she left, I wasn't cold — I was burning.
It was 5:40 a.m. The city slept, its skyline rimmed with the first blush of dawn. A thin mist clung to the windows, softening the edges of every tower and light.
Five times a day I knock on the door of Allah — and each time, He answers. When every other door closed, His remained open. It wasn't my eyes that had been blind — it was my heart. Ayah lifted the veil, and God freed it.
Before I pray, I cleanse — wudu — cool water against skin, the shiver of humility that reminds me I am dust returning to mercy. The marble beneath my bare feet was cold, grounding.The prayer mat unfolded softly, its fabric worn smooth by years of repetition. I placed it facing the Kaaba. The air felt still, expectant.
When I bowed, I remembered her.Because when Ayah gifted me Islam, I could give her nothing but my surrender — my heart finally turning toward the same heaven she had always faced.
When I finished, I stayed kneeling for a moment, palms resting on my thighs. Outside, the horizon began to blush. The light crept slow and gold over the city, washing the rooftops, chasing away the cold that clung to the glass. Even the shadows seemed to retreat. That, I thought, is mercy — light finding everything it touches.
As the warmth brushed my face, it felt as though someone had descended from the heavens — or perhaps as though God Himself was smiling upon the world.
Ayah was declared dead on December 3rd, 2003, at 8:00 p.m.
Elsewhere, a small café lost its brightest laugh.An old greengrocer waited for the girl who waved every morning.Stray cats roamed the alley, searching for the hands that once fed them.A florist kept aside a bouquet she'd never collect.A father blamed himself.A sister lost her mirror.A brother regretted his last words.
Today marked Ayah's seventh death anniversary.
I had seen paradise once — in her eyes. I still do.
It was time to visit her grave.My father's words from last night echoed faintly: Expect a guest tomorrow.He hadn't said who, only that I should be ready.
I opened my closet and reached for the white panjabi Ayah had gifted me on my birthday. I wore it every Friday for Jummah. It still smelled faintly of her — rosewater and sandalwood soap.
Downstairs, the faint clink of dishes met my ears. Kennedy — Mrs. Flores — had already arrived. She'd been with our family for twenty years, since before Ayah, since before Alex. She had raised us quietly, faithfully, through every loss.
"Aubrey," she said softly, placing a plate before me, "eat while it's warm."Her voice carried the tenderness of someone who has seen too many mornings end in silence.
I sat at the long white marble table, sunlight breaking through the curtains in bands of gold. The vase of red roses at its centre caught the light like embers trapped in glass. It looked like the home we once dreamed of — alive with laughter that only memory could provide.
"If we have a boy," Ayah had once said, her head in my lap, "we'll name him Zair. And if it's a girl — Aiza."I had brushed the strands from her face, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "Whatever my queen desires."
As I ate — pancakes folded with scrambled eggs — I asked Kennedy why she had come so early. I'd told her ten.
Her eyes shimmered. "I wasn't there when she left," she whispered, "but I can at least make you breakfast — so you can deliver a message to her from me."
Every year on Ayah's anniversary, Kennedy writes her a note. I carry it to the cemetery and read it aloud. She's never gone herself — says she couldn't bear to see Ayah's name etched in marble. Her tears would fall, but her voice wouldn't.
What did Ayah do to deserve such love?
Kennedy's life had once been in ruins — a husband who vanished with her savings, a family who cast her out. But Ayah refused to let despair win. She found her a good man, a widower with a son, and arranged their wedding."Smile," Ayah had told her that day, "it's the best revenge against those who try to break you."And when she learned that the thief had been found, she personally recovered what remained of Kennedy's stolen money and returned it herself.
Ayah didn't just save people. She restored them.
When I finished breakfast, I slipped Kennedy's note into my pocket — and another memory surfaced.
We had been at Kennedy's wedding years ago. Ayah's fingers intertwined with mine as we watched the ceremony. Her head rested gently on my shoulder."Ardel," she murmured, "never make a woman cry. Never."
I smiled faintly. "Never? Not even by accident?"
She turned to me, that quiet, knowing smile on her lips. "Especially then. In Islam, if a man is the cause of a woman's tears, the angels curse every step he takes."
Sunlight danced across her face — golden, almost divine."You sound sure," I said.
"I am," she replied. "Because a woman's tears are sacred — they fall where love once lived."
I remember laughing softly. "And you think I'd never cause that?"
Her eyes lingered, teasing, tender. "No," she said simply. "You love too deeply to be cruel."
I didn't know how wrong she was. Love doesn't make a man gentle. It only teaches him how easily the gentle can break.
Even the key to paradise, she said, is held by a woman.
At the cemetery, the air was sharp with frost and earth. My shoes crunched over gravel as I carried the bouquet of irises. The horizon burned faintly gold, and the marble headstones glowed like quiet lanterns in the morning light.
Each step toward her grave felt like walking through a dream — where grief and peace existed side by side, refusing to let go of each other.
Her name — Ayah Ferdous — was carved deep into white marble, gleaming beneath the rising sun. The letters were cold beneath my fingers, smooth as glass.
"I was blessed to have you," I whispered. "To call you mine."
The wind stirred, soft and playful — as if her laughter had learned to travel through air instead of lungs.
"When I met you," I said, voice low, "my heart took over, and my mind never caught up."
I laid the bouquet down. The petals shivered against the breeze. The sun rose higher, spilling gold over the stones, and for a heartbeat the world stood still — holding its breath.
"Until we meet again, my love," I whispered.
And as the warmth of the light touched my face, I could almost swear I felt her hand against my cheek — gentle, fleeting, like the brush of heaven itself.