The Stars and the Smoke
At approximately 1:30 a.m., I found myself on my private terrace — a cigarette resting between my fingers, the other hand gripping the cool, sturdy railing. The night air wrapped around me like an old friend, carrying the faint hum of a city that never truly slept. In the quiet, the cold wind whispered fragments of the world beyond — solitude, solace, and the kind of stillness I'd come to crave.
Whenever the weight of life grew too heavy, I came here — to the stars.They reminded me of her. Of Ayah.
Sometimes, I liked to imagine that when God called her back, He scattered her across the heavens — turning her into countless stars. It felt like His way of showing the world her beauty, letting her light burn forever above me. Proof that the dead aren't gone. They remain — woven into the fabric of existence, shimmering just beyond our mortal reach.
And yet, I found myself arguing with God in the quiet.Out of all the souls He could have called home, why hers?I never asked for grandeur or glory — only to keep the one person I loved close. But perhaps He tests the ones He loves most. Perhaps this pain is love in disguise.
So I whispered into the cold:All praise belongs to Allah. Keep my beloved close to You, sheltered in Your mercy. And when my time comes, reunite us gracefully — in the warmth of Your eternal presence, where no distance, no sorrow, will ever tear us apart again.
Ayah had told me stories like that — stories about Islam, her voice soft but sure, carrying a peace that reached even the corners of my disbelief.
I remember the first time I told her I was an atheist — waiting for judgment.It never came.
She only smiled, her eyes full of light instead of condemnation. Then, in her way — gentle but certain — she spoke.
"Every painting needs a painter," she said. "The world is like a blank canvas — vast, hollow, meaningless — until someone paints upon it. Without the artist, it remains nothing but emptiness."
Her gaze wandered toward the sky, her tone becoming almost sacred.
"To be created, there must be a Creator. And mine is Allah. When my Lord says, 'Be, and it is,' creation unfolds as if His words weave the very fabric of existence."
"Kun faya kun," she added softly — and somehow, I felt the universe shift inside me.
She turned back to me, her eyes glowing with the serenity of belief.
"Humans, Aubrey," she said gently, "are born fragile. We stumble, we falter, we sin. But in a world where hope fades, there is Allah — merciful, patient, near. He reminds me not to fear, for He is always with me. Watching. Listening. Even to the prayers I can't find words for."
Then she smiled faintly.
"My father used to tell me," she said, "that if Allah chooses to protect you, no power in the world can harm you. But if He wills otherwise — no force, no empire, no man — can save you."
Her words lingered in the air between us, heavy and holy.
"And when we raise our hands in prayer," she continued, "and we ask with sincerity — Allah becomes too shy to let us leave empty-handed. Every prayer is answered, though not always in ways we recognize. Sometimes, it's in the silence. Sometimes, in the delay. But always, it is mercy."
Her voice softened to a whisper.
"Prayer isn't ritual, Aubrey. It's intimacy. In that moment, Allah draws closer to us than even our own souls. He hears what our hearts are too tired to say."
Even now, years later, those words breathed through me. It wasn't just faith she'd given me — it was a map through grief.
The sound of the terrace door sliding open pulled me back to the present.
"A penny for your thoughts?" Kais's voice cut through the quiet, his tone teasing but soft. I turned to see him step out, his long coat rippling in the cold New York wind. Behind him came Michael — hands buried in his pockets, his expression calm and unreadable as always.
"You still do this?" Michael asked, eyeing the cigarette between my fingers.
I exhaled a dry laugh. "Old habits die hard."It had been years since I'd smoked, but sometimes holding one — even unlit — brought a strange kind of calm. A memory of control.
Michael extended a hand. "If you're not going to light it, hand it over."
Before I could move, Kais darted forward and snatched it clean from my fingers. "Absolutely not," he declared, tossing it over the terrace rail. "Passive smoking is just as bad as the real thing." His breath fogged in the air as he turned on Michael. "And don't tell me you were actually planning to light it."
Michael's brow lifted, a smirk playing at the edge of his lips. "I wasn't."
"Uh-huh," Kais muttered, crossing his arms. "You two are hopeless. You're lucky I'm here to save your lungs — and your IQ."
I grinned faintly. "So what now, Captain Morality? You crash my midnight peace to stage a health intervention?"
Kais shot me a look. "No. I came to stop you from brooding yourself into an existential crisis."
Michael snorted. "Good luck with that."
Kais ignored him and turned toward the city lights. "It's late. The streets are empty. Perfect night for something stupid."
I raised an eyebrow. "Define stupid."
A glint sparked in his eyes. "A bike race. To the Manhattan Bridge. No rules."
Michael and I exchanged glances — his expression unreadable, mine halfway between disbelief and amusement.
"Let me get this straight," I said slowly. "You want to drag two grown men into the freezing streets of New York at 2 a.m. for a race?"
"Exactly." Kais's grin widened. "Winner gets to make the losers do anything."
Michael folded his arms. "And the catch?"
"Anything goes," Kais replied. "Money, power, sabotage. It's all fair game."
Michael tilted his head slightly, that quiet spark of mischief finally breaking through his calm. "So cheating's encouraged?"
"Celebrated," Kais said with satisfaction.
I laughed under my breath, shaking my head. "You're insane."
"Probably," Kais replied, his grin unbothered.
Michael smirked. "Fine. I'm in. Let's see if you can actually keep up."
"Perfect," Kais said, clapping his hands together. "Try not to die before the finish line."
The cold wind swept around us, carrying laughter and challenge in equal measure.
For the first time in what felt like forever, the night didn't feel heavy. It felt alive.
And as the three of us headed down toward the city — toward the streets slick with snow and silence — I looked up once more.
The stars were bright tonight.Ayah's stars.
And for a fleeting moment, I could almost hear her voice in the wind — soft, amused, and full of love.
"Live, Aubrey. Just live."