I was in the middle of nowhere, after driving for hours, but something about the place pulled me in. There was a strange energy—warm, welcoming—surrounding the multi-million-dollar house belonging to Ali. I couldn't resist. I walked up to the enormous front door and knocked. A butler opened it and welcomed me inside. I smiled.
Before I could say anything, my phone buzzed.
"Hello?" a voice said as soon as I picked up.
"Hey," I replied, not even checking who it was.
"Where are you, dear?"
I immediately recognized my mom's sharp tone.
"Oh—Mom, that's you," I said.
"That is not an answer."
"My bad. I'm at Ali's house."
"Ali's? That's nine hours from here!" she exclaimed.
"I—mean…" I hesitated, searching for the right words.
I cleared my throat, my voice steadier. "It's important. Try to understand, Mom."
She let out a long sigh. "I don't mind that you went," she admitted. "If I knew you were leaving, I had some things to send to Fatima."
"Oh, so that's the case. I'll bring you here someday, then you can do whatever you need, okay?" I offered.
"Okay, okay… have a good one."
"Bye, Mom."
"Bye, honeybun," she teased.
"Don't ever call me that," I protested—but she hung up before I finished.
I laughed a little and repeated under my breath, "Honeybun." I scoffed and settled onto the sofa to wait for Ali.
Twenty minutes later, he arrived. Ali was tall with amber eyes, wearing a sharp suit. His silky hair and well-built frame were obvious even through his tight shirt. Two bodyguards walked beside him as he came in.
"Hey! Sup?" I greeted, dapping him up.
"Hello, dude. How are you?" he replied.
"I'm good… I guess." My mood shifted without warning.
"Oh, I get it," he said, catching on quickly.
He led me to his room, closed the door behind us, and asked a waiter to bring food.
"So… how's life?" I asked.
"Alhumdulillah, it's good," he said.
I looked at him, confused.
"Alhumdulillah means 'thanks to my God.'"
The meaning settled in. "So you say that whenever something good happens?"
"Yeah," he nodded.
He slipped off his coat. "How's life going for you?"
"I mean… it's something. Haven't been sleeping much."
He leaned forward slightly. "About that—what exactly do you see?"
I explained the dream in detail.
"Hm. Interesting. My dad will know what it means."
"Speaking of him… where is he?" I glanced around.
"He's out on important work."
The food arrived, and we ate while talking for hours. He told me everything about his life, his family, and a lot about Islam. It was cool learning all that.
By nightfall, his father returned. I told him about my dream. He listened closely, his expression serious, then finally spoke:
"From what you've described, it seems something—or someone—has used black magic on you. Bleeding from the eye, the darkness… none of that is good. Even if you try to escape it, the only way to break the magic is to complete the dream. No matter how frightening it is, you must see it through. Do not fear. Fear cannot hurt you. Fear cannot kill you. Trust yourself—and trust the God who created you."
His words were powerful. They settled deep inside me, holding me together.