The girl from the billionaire's dream

She crossed the threshold carrying a bundle no heavier than a sack of flour—a one-day-old infant wrapped in a faded dish towel. She had brought nothing else. No luggage. No spare clothes. Not even a proper blanket for the child.

“Muntaha... is that you?”

A neighbor from two doors down paused on her stoop, wiping her hands on her apron as her gaze darted from the swaddled infant to Muntaha’s hollow cheeks. “Mashallah, a boy! But...” The woman’s eyes drifted past the gate, searching the quiet alleyway. The polished black sedan that used to glide up to the stoop was absent. “Where is your husband?”

Muntaha stopped mid-step. Her knuckles whitened around the small bundle, her chest locked tight, her expression flattening into stone.

Her mother stepped quickly between them, placing a firm hand on Muntaha’s shoulder to nudge her indoors. “She’s exhausted,” her mother lied, forcing a strained, polite smile that didn’t reach her bloodshot eyes. “She needs rest.”

Without a word, Muntaha walked inside, her boots heavy on the tile, and let the front door latch shut behind them.

-------

A month bled by before Muntaha crossed the threshold again.

The heat in the narrow alley felt suffocating as she slipped toward the corner grocery store, pulling her cotton scarf low over her brow until only her eyes were visible.

Near the counter, two women stood over a bin of lentils. One leaned toward her daughter, her voice lowered just enough to carry over the hum of the ceiling fan. “That’s what becomes of girls who stare at shiny cars and lose their minds...”

Muntaha’s fingers dug into the fabric over her mouth. She dropped exact change onto the glass counter, her palm sweating against the coins.

“...A month in luxury, then thrown out with a bastard in her arms.”

Muntaha grabbed the tin of formula, her chin tucked tight against her collarbone as she turned for the exit.

“If it’s even his,” a second voice cut through the quiet store, sharp and casual. “A madman doesn’t father children like that. Who knows whose bed she crawled into before they dumped her back on her mother’s doorstep?”

Muntaha’s sandals scraped to a halt. The floor beneath her seemed to tilt. The scent of raw jute, turmeric, and diesel smoke pressed into her throat, thick as mud. Her chest heaved, but no air reached her lungs. She stared fixedly at the dirt threshold, waiting for her legs to buckle—yet somehow, her body kept her standing.

-----

In the stifling bedroom, the infant screamed until his ribs strained against his thin skin, his face turning a deep, dangerous purple.

Muntaha sat on the edge of the wooden cot, hands folded motionless in her lap. Her eyes were fixed on the stain on the far plaster wall. She didn’t reach out. She didn’t unbutton her shirt.

Her younger sister burst through the doorway, her slippers slapping against the concrete floor. “Api! He’s been wailing for an hour! Look at him—he’s choking!”

Muntaha didn’t blink.

“Api, take him!” The girl scooped the tiny, thrashing weight off the mattress and tried to press him into Muntaha’s chest.

Muntaha’s arm snapped up, shoving her sister back so hard the girl stumbled against the bedframe.

Their mother hurried in at the thud, her gaze darting from the shrieking baby to Muntaha’s blank, glassy eyes. “Muntaha, what is wrong with you?”

“Take him away,” Muntaha said, her voice flat, stripped of resonance.

“What?”

“I’m not feeding him. I’m going to give him to the couple down in the lower block—the ones who can’t have children.” Muntaha’s eyes remained fixed on the wall, her breathing unnaturally slow. “They’ll give him a real name. A clean name. He doesn’t need me.”

Her mother lunged forward, grabbing Muntaha by her shoulders and shaking her until her head snapped back. “Have you lost your mind?! Give away your own flesh and blood?”

“Yes!” The dam broke, a raw, ragged tear ripping through Muntaha’s throat as she hauled herself up, shoving her mother’s hands off. “They will raise him! He’ll have a roof that people don’t spit on when they walk past!”

“He has a name! He is your son! He is Zayan’s son!”

“He isn’t!” Muntaha shrieked, the tears finally bursting free, burning hot down her cheeks. “If he were Zayan’s son, would they have swept us out like trash into the street? Would he have let them turn me into a whore in front of the whole neighborhood?” She pressed both fists hard against her sternum, her shoulders shaking violently. “I loved him, Ma. I gave him everything, and he—”

Her breath hitched sharply, her throat seizing so hard the rest of the sentence died in her throat.

And then, the room went dead silent.

Not a fade, not a quiet whimpering—an abrupt, suffocating stillness dropped over the room.

Muntaha froze mid-gasp, her shoulders hitched high. The scream died in her throat, replaced instantly by an icy, paralyzing terror. Her heart hammered against her ribs as her focus snapped away from her own anger and straight to the absolute silence in her sister’s arms.

Her sister’s hands began to tremble. “Api...”

Muntaha’s eyes widened, the blood draining completely from her face.

“Babu... Api, he’s not moving.”

Muntaha dropped to her knees, snatching the small form from her sister’s hands. The tiny chest was completely still under her palms, his lips tinged a faint, terrifying blue.

Muntaha slammed her palm against the tiny back, panic clawing at her throat. “Babu! Wake up!”

A terrifying second passed before the infant gasped, a thready, desperate gasp that turned into a weak, raspy cry. The blue tinge faded slowly from his lips, but his breathing remained shallow and ragged.

They didn’t wait.

Her mother grabbed her own heavy wool shawl from the chair, throwing one end over her shoulder and swiftly wrapping the long, thick fabric around both of their heads and lower faces, hiding their features from the midnight whispers of the neighborhood. Swaddling the fragile bundle tightly against her chest beneath the folds, she bolted into the suffocating night. Muntaha ran beside her, her own scarf pulled low over her brows, her bare soles striking the damp concrete as they wove through the dark, narrow alleys like shadows.

The local hospital emergency room was bright, loud, and smelled overpoweringly of bleach and antiseptic.

An ER nurse took one look at the pale, limp infant and whisked him through the double doors before Muntaha could even speak. The doors swung shut, cutting them off.

Muntaha stood paralyzed in the middle of the waiting room. The harsh overhead fluorescent lights exposed everything—her disheveled hair, her tear-stained face, her empty, trembling hands.

Her mother sat on a plastic chair in the corner, clutching the baby’s tiny, empty blanket to her chest. She wasn’t yelling. She wasn’t scolding. Her eyes were fixed on the floor, heavy with a silent, crushing disappointment that cut Muntaha deeper than any harsh word could.

For the first time in weeks, the noise in Muntaha’s head fell completely silent.

She wasn’t thinking about Zayan. She wasn’t thinking about the neighborhood rumors. She wasn’t thinking about the humiliation of being thrown out or what people whispered when she walked down the street.

Her heart dropped to its knees.

Ya Allah, she prayed, her hands trembling as she pressed them against her face, her tears hot against her palms. Please. Take my life, take my sanity, take whatever you want... but do not take him from me.

An hour passed like a slow nightmare before the double doors swung open.

An attending doctor stepped out, pulling off his surgical mask. His eyes were tired, carrying the weight of a long shift as he looked between Muntaha and her mother.

“He’s responding,” the doctor said, his voice quiet, measured, and grave. “We’ve placed him on oxygen and stabilized his blood sugar.” He paused, his gaze fixing squarely on Muntaha. “But he was far weaker than a child his age should ever be. Severe dehydration, dangerous lethargy... his heart was straining just to keep up.”

The doctor’s words hit Muntaha like a physical blow. Her knees nearly gave out.

“A newborn cannot survive without basic, continuous care,” the doctor added, his voice devoid of judgment, purely medical and unforgivingly direct. “If he had gone another hour without intervention, his body would have given up.”

Another hour.

Muntaha’s hand flew to her mouth to choke back a violent sob. She knew. She knew with absolute, agonizing clarity that it wasn’t an accident. It was her own bitterness, her own blinding grief, that had pushed her child to the brink of death.

“You can see him now,” the nurse said gently, holding the door open.

-------

Inside the nursery, the baby lay under a warming lamp, a tiny monitor taped to his foot. He looked so small against the white hospital sheets, a fragile soul who had done nothing to deserve the storm he was born into.

Muntaha approached the cot slowly, as if she didn’t deserve to step on the same floor.

“I’m sorry, Babu...” Her voice broke. “I’m so sorry.”

She reached toward him, then stopped.

There were wires attached to his tiny body. A thin line ran beneath the blanket. The monitor beside him gave a soft, steady beep.

He looked impossibly small.

Muntaha pressed both hands over her mouth as another sob tore through her.

She didn’t know what to do.

She didn’t know how to take away his weakness, his hunger, his fever. She didn’t know how to undo the hours when she had sat only a few feet away and refused to reach for him.

If she could have taken his pain into her own body, she would have done it without hesitation.

“Give it to me,” she whispered through her tears. “Please, Allah... give his pain to me.”

Her knees weakened, and she lowered herself onto the chair beside the cot.

“I can bear it. I can bear anything.”

Her fingers hovered over the edge of the blanket before finally touching his tiny hand.

Warm.

So warm.

His fingers moved faintly against hers.

Muntaha’s breath caught.

He was still fighting.

Even after everything.

Even after she had failed him.

He was still reaching for her.

She bowed her head until her forehead rested against the edge of the cot, tears slipping silently onto the white sheet.

“I’m your mother,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “I should have protected you.”

Her shoulders shook.

“I don’t know how to fix what I’ve done.”

For several moments, there was nothing but the quiet beeping of the monitor.

Then Muntaha lifted her head.

“I’ll learn.”

Her eyes remained fixed on her son’s tiny face.

“I’ll learn how to take care of you. I’ll learn how to be your mother properly. I won’t let my pain become your pain again.”

Her thumb moved gently over his miniature fingers.

“And I won’t ask anyone to save us.”

Her voice trembled.

“I’ll ask Allah.”

The baby stirred beneath the blanket, his tiny mouth opening in a weak, sleepy movement.

Muntaha smiled through her tears.

It was the smallest smile she had managed in weeks.

“I’m here, Babu.”

She leaned closer.

“Your mother is here.”

And for the first time since she had returned to her mother’s house, Muntaha no longer wished to disappear.

She only wished to live.

For him.

----------

When they returned home, the air in the house was heavy, thick with the stench of poverty and lingering shock. Before Muntaha could even reach out her arms, her mother snatched the swaddled baby from her chest.

“You don’t touch him,” her mother said, her voice dropping into a register as hard and cold as iron. “You lost that right the moment you let him starve.”

Guilt rushed through Muntaha like scalding acid, burning straight through the numbness that had consumed her for weeks. She stood frozen in the center of the dark room, her bare feet numb, her arms feeling unnaturally light and empty.

Later that evening, the baby began to cry out in hunger again—a raw, frantic wailing from the small cot.

Muntaha stepped into the doorway, her knees trembling so violently she had to hold onto the doorframe. Her mother stood over the crib, fanning the child with a bamboo fan, her back turned deliberately like a stone wall.

“Ma... please,” Muntaha begged, her voice breaking into a ragged sob. Tears spilled over her lashes, hot down her hollow cheeks. “Give him to me. Please, Ma.”

Her mother didn’t turn around right away. She kept fanning, the rhythmic swish-swish of the woven bamboo cutting through the baby’s cries.

“Why are you crying now?” her mother asked, her tone flat, devoid of pity. “Why weep now, Muntaha?”

Muntaha choked on her breath, unable to speak.

Her mother turned slowly, holding the screaming infant close against her shoulder, her dark eyes pinning Muntaha where she stood. “Isn’t this what you wanted? Hours ago, you were ready to toss him away to strangers in the lower block like a sack of unwanted rags! You were so drowned in your own misery, so obsessed with your broken heart, that you sat there and watched your own child choke on silence!”

“I was out of my mind... Ma, please—”

“You neglected your own blood because a man walked away!” Her mother stepped forward, her quiet fury filling the small room. “Have you no shame before Allah? He granted you a living, breathing soul—a pure blessing—and you turned your back on him because your pride was bruised! Tell me, how were you planning to stand before your Creator and explain why you let his gift perish of hunger?”

Every word struck Muntaha like a physical blow. She collapsed onto her knees right on the floor, burying her face in her trembling hands as heavy, shuddering sobs racked her body. The guilt wasn’t just a thought anymore; it was a physical weight crushing her chest, suffocating her. She had almost killed her own son out of selfish, blinding grief.

“Look at him,” her mother demanded softly, standing over her. “Look at your son. He has an identity. He is your legal, lawful child. He has a father named Zayan, whether that man stays or runs into the ends of the earth. Your child is not nameless. But you... you almost made him breathless.”

Muntaha couldn’t look up. She sat on the floor, weeping uncontrollably, her palms pressed flat against the concrete as she nodded through her tears. “I’m sorry... I’m so sorry... give him to me, Ma... I’ll fix it... I swear to Allah I’ll fix it...”

She nodded through her tears, lowering herself onto the edge of the bed.

Her mother watched her for a long, silent moment. The harshness in her gaze slowly dissolved, replaced by the profound, tired grief of a mother watching her child shatter. Without a word, she reached down to the foot of the bed and picked up her own thick, worn wool shawl—the one that smelled faintly of cardamom and lavender oil.

Stepping forward, her mother gently draped the heavy fabric over Muntaha’s shivering shoulders, tucking it snugly around her neck. Her mother’s hand lingered on Muntaha’s shoulder for a second—a firm, grounding pressure—before she carefully transferred the warm, fragile weight of the baby into Muntaha’s waiting arms.

-----

Muntaha unbuttoned her shirt with shaking fingers and brought her son to her chest. As he latched on and fell quiet, the deep, bone-chilling cold that had clung to her skin began to melt away. He was holding her finger. She brushed his tiny fingers with her thumb and kissed them.

His tiny, damp forehead pressed against the inner crook of her arm. With every small breath he took, his warm air puffed softly against her ribs, cutting through the numbness that had encased her for weeks. The sheer warmth of his body seeped into her chest, anchoring her back to the physical world.

A wave of fierce, overwhelming love washed over her, drowning out the lingering guilt. She stroked his soft head, burying her face in his scent—milk, sweet oil, and new life—and closed her eyes as his tiny fingers curled tightly around her thumb.

“My darling child,” she whispered in her heart, staring down at his small, trusting face. “I will never let anyone question who you are. I’ll raise you myself,” Muntaha whispered against his temple. “I’ll give you a name that no one can take away from you.”

She looked down at his small, sleeping face. His tiny lips were parted, his chest rising and falling in steady, peaceful rhythm.

“I’ll call you... Zaeem.” A soft, broken smile touched her lips. “My leader. My strength. The one who will rise above everything they say about us.”

She pressed another kiss to his forehead, her tears falling onto his soft skin.

“You are not your father’s son. You are mine. And you will be greater than he ever was. I rely only upon Allah now. He is enough for both of us.”

She pressed another soft kiss against her son’s temple, her lips lingering on his warm skin as her gaze hardened toward the empty doorway.

“And as for your father... as for Zayan... I will never forgive him. Never.”

--------

5 Years Later

Zayan bolted upright, his chest heaving as the bite of the air conditioner hit the thin film of sweat on his skin. The dream clung to him like damp wool, heavy and suffocating. Beside the bed, the digital clock bled a faint, green 3:00 AM into the darkness of his minimalist room. He threw back the cashmere duvet, a lingering dread coiling in his chest.

It was the same girl. Again.

Over the past few weeks, she had slipped into his sleep with unnerving frequency—her face a blur he couldn’t quite assemble by daylight, yet painfully vivid the second he closed his eyes.

In the dream, everything was bathed in a soft, golden haze. She stood before him in the grass, the hem of her loose cotton dress swaying in a light breeze.

“You... you look very pretty,” he whispered. The words slipped out with a raw, unfamiliar reverence.

A flush crept up her neck, a shy, hesitant smile softening her lips. “Really?” She gathered the fabric of her dress in her fingers and gave a light twirl, her quiet laughter echoing through the stillness.

His heart hammered against his ribs—a sharp, sudden flutter he had never felt in his waking life. Drawn by a pull he couldn’t control, he reached out and caught her hand. Deep mahogany henna stained her palm, warm and real beneath his fingertips.

Then the light flickered.

Her smile withered. The warmth in her fingers turned icy as her eyes widened with sudden, piercing terror. “What’s wrong?” she asked, her voice tight with panic. “Are you alright? Zayan... Zayan?”

He tightened his grip, desperate to anchor her, reaching up with his free hand to frame her face—but her skin dissolved into cold mist. His fingers closed on empty air, and the golden haze shattered into blackness.

More frequently.

He wiped his face with both hands and pushed himself to his feet, the plush charcoal linen of the platform bed cool against his skin. With a heavy sigh, he walked toward the expansive window, his bare feet silent on the cool concrete floor. He opened the window, welcoming the cool morning air. His bangs danced along the breeze. The sky had become a vast canvas of twilight stars.

He was extremely confused. The girl... who was she? He wasn’t seeing her once, twice, or thrice. He had seen her in so many of his dreams that he had lost count. At first, he’d thought this was just a dream, but now he felt there was something more to it. Otherwise, why would he see her so many times?

Zayan ran a hand over his damp face, trying to shake the cold ache lingering in his chest. His heart was still beating too fast.

He reached blindly for his phone on the marble nightstand to check the time. The harsh blue light blinded him for a second as the screen lit up—3:04 AM. Directly under the clock, a subtle pop-up notification from his daily Islamic reflection app glowed against the dark wallpaper.

It was a notification scheduled for the final third of the night, a quiet reminder resting on his screen:

“Our Lord descends every night to the lowest heaven when one-third of the night remains, saying: ‘Who will call upon Me, that I may answer him? Who will ask of Me, that I may give him? Who will seek My forgiveness, that I may forgive him?’”

Zayan stared at the words, the silence of the massive bedroom suddenly pressing heavy against his ears.

Forgiveness.

The word hung in the air like a phantom. He stared down at his empty palms—the same hands that, just moments ago in the dream, had tried to grasp a woman who wasn’t there. A sharp, uninvited knot formed in his throat. He didn’t understand why the dream kept haunting him, or why a strange, crushing weight of guilt had settled into his ribs over the past few weeks, but in the quiet dark of three in the morning, the notification felt less like a coincidence and more like an echo into his empty chest.

He glided toward the adjacent washroom, his bare feet barely brushing the cool concrete floor.

He moved into the adjoining washroom, where the dim bedside lamp threw long, muted shadows across the polished marble. Turning the chrome tap, he let the cool water run over his fingers, his lips barely moving as he murmured, “Bismillah.”

He cupped his hands beneath the stream, rinsing his mouth and splashing the icy water over his face to wash away the sticky residue of sleep and the phantom grip of the dream. Each movement was deliberate, practiced, and slow—washing his forearms to the elbows, drawing damp fingers over his hair and the contours of his ears, letting the stream wash over his feet until his skin stung with cold.

Stepping back onto the dark hardwood of the bedroom, he unrolled the velvet prayer rug toward the Qibla. The pile yielded softly beneath his bare feet. As he stood at the edge of the carpet, the towering glass windows and the sleeping city twenty floors below receded into the dark. There was only the hushed, heavy silence of three in the morning and the steady, quiet thrum of his own chest.

Facing the qibla, he raised his hands to his ears. “Allahu Akbar.”

The words left his throat as a low, raspy whisper. As his hands folded across his chest, the quiet pressure in the room shifted. The sleek Italian furniture, the floor-to-ceiling glass, the hum of the city twenty floors below—it all fell away.

He bent at the waist into ruku, his spine straight, then lowered himself fully onto the rug. His forehead touched the soft fabric. In the stillness of sujood, the heavy knot in his chest began to loosen. His voice, usually sharp and decisive in boardrooms, now trembled as he recited the verses in a quiet, unsteady breath.

Guide us to the straight path...

With every prostration, the phantom grip of the nightmare receded. The faint scent of sandalwood lingered in the cool air as he sat back on his heels for the final dua. He cupped his palms together, staring down at them.

He didn’t ask for success. He didn’t pray for his business.

“O Turner of the hearts,” he whispered, his hands trembling slightly in the dark, “grant me peace. Forgive what I do not know... and clear this heavy darkness from my mind.”

Silence swallowed the room as he wiped his palms over his face and rested them on his thighs. The mystery of the girl remained, the unanswered questions still heavy in his mind, but the suffocating weight on his lungs was gone. Outside, the black skyline began to soften into the very first gray threads of dawn.

Zayan came to jog with his best friend, Abrar.

“That girl comes in every one of my dreams. I didn’t pay much attention to her before. But now... now that girl is all over my mind,” Zayan said in a troubled voice.

“Is that Roshni?” Abrar asked, suspecting it was Zayan’s ex-fiancée.

“No, she is not,” Zayan said. “She is someone else. I haven’t seen her before.”

Abrar sighed in relief. “I am glad it’s not Roshni. You still have feelings for her?”

“Shut up.” Zayan ignored Abrar and kept running.

Abrar stopped dead on the park track, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand as a flock of cockatoos screeched over the eucalyptus trees. He squinted at Zayan like he was assessing a patient in a psychiatric ward.

“I’m telling you, mate, it’s a female jinn,” Abrar insisted, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper as a couple of Aussie joggers power-walked past them. “She saw you in your tailored suit, thought, ‘Ah, a CEO with good hair,’ and followed you all the way to Sydney. It’s a well-documented international phenomenon.”

Zayan didn’t slow down. His stride remained steady, rhythmic, and thoroughly unamused. “I am trying to have a serious conversation about recurring psychological stress, Abrar.”

“And I am giving you a spiritual prescription!” Abrar jogged to catch up, his breath coming in heavy gasps. “Look, my uncle knows a Huzoor over at the Lakemba mosque. Very authentic. No weird chants, strictly Sunnah. We drive down there after Jummah, he recites Ruqyah over a bottle of Mount Franklin water, you drink it for seven days, and boom—no more phantom henna girls twirling in your dreams.”

Zayan threw him a look cold enough to freeze the Australian summer. “You want me to sit in front of a religious scholar in Lakemba and explain that I need exorcism water because a woman smiled at me in my sleep?”

“Would you rather explain it to your mother?” Abrar countered smoothly, tapping Zayan’s shoulder. “Because if you keep looking like a brooding vampire at family dinners, Aunty isn’t calling a Huzoor—she’s flying Samaira out on the next Qantas flight to fix the wedding date. Take the Ruqyah water, Zayan. It’s cheaper than a Sydney wedding.”

“I am being serious, Abrar,” Zayan said.

Abrar finally stopped and said, “Your problem isn’t psychological stress, Zayan. It’s a simple mathematical equation: you need to get married. That’s why you’re seeing a girl in your dreams.”

Zayan stopped in his tracks, blinking as if Abrar had just suggested investing in a bankrupt startup. “Marriage?”

“And what else?” Abrar threw his hands up, gesturing to the sprawling Sydney skyline like it was self-evident. “It’s a biological, spiritual, and emotional reset button! Look at you—you’re working eighteen-hour days, running on black coffee, and hallucinating twirling women in loose cotton dresses at three in the morning. Your brain is begging for a distraction.”

Zayan shook his head in disbelief. “Am I a teenager that I’m having such dreams?”

“No, but you’re acting like one!” Abrar jogged in place, pointing a finger at Zayan’s chest. “Think about the logic, Zayan. You think getting married will make you sleep better? No! But at least you won’t be haunted by mysterious dream girls anymore—because you won’t be sleeping at all!”

Zayan stared at him, cold and unamused. “That is your grand pitch for holy matrimony?”

“It’s bulletproof logic!” Abrar declared, picking up his pace alongside him. “Right now, you lie in your plush king-sized bed in pure, silent luxury, so your mind invents romantic phantoms to fill the void. But once you’re married? You’ll be arguing over who forgot to buy almond milk, dodging your mother-in-law’s unexpected weekend visits, and trying to figure out why the throw pillows need to be arranged in a specific geometric pattern. You won’t have the mental real estate to dream about a girl! Real life will exhaust you into a peaceful, dreamless coma.”

A dry, reluctant twitch touched the corner of Zayan’s lips. “It is entirely useless talking to you.”

“No, it’s reality—it’s just your age catching up. We’re not exactly spring chickens anymore, you know. Remember Nathan?” Abrar stopped on the track, hands on his hips as he shuddered visibly. “The man hasn’t slept a full four hours since 2022. He walked into the office last Tuesday smelling like lavender-scented Huggies and lavender-scented panic.”

Zayan scoffed, picking up his pace again. “Don’t compare me to Nathan. Marriage isn’t some competition, and children are a completely different discussion.”

“I’m not comparing, I’m warning you!” Abrar jogged to stay side by side, waving a finger dramatically. “Nathan used to talk about market acquisitions and high-yield portfolios. Do you know what he spent twenty minutes explaining to me yesterday over coffee? The difference between a blowout and a leakage. He had diagrams, Zayan. On a cloth napkin! He looks at a toddler’s soiled onesie with the same war-room intensity you use for hostile takeovers.”

Abrar placed a hand over his heart, gasping for air. “The man carries three different brands of wet wipes in his tailored suit pocket. In his inner breast pocket! Where a CEO is supposed to keep his Montblanc pen! If you don’t sort your life out now, brother, that’s our future. You’ll be sitting in a Sydney board meeting arguing over diaper rash cream instead of foreign investments.”

Zayan shook his head, a dry, reluctant twitch touching the corner of his lips. “It is entirely useless talking to you.”

“I’m offering you a cure!” Abrar called after him as Zayan strode ahead. “You want to stop seeing the henna girl? Get married! I give it forty-eight hours before you’re praying for the dream girl to come back just so you can get five minutes of quiet!”

Zayan became quiet. Then he stopped and stood still.

Abrar caught up and asked, “What is your problem? Are you hesitant about marriage?”

Zayan didn’t reply. Abrar took a deep breath. “I get it, marriage is a big decision. But come on, even Aunty’s getting anxious. Namira told me she brought up Samaira again.”

Zayan ran a hand through his hair, the gesture betraying the tension he was trying to hide. “It’s not that simple, Abrar!”

Abrar studied him for a moment and then said, “Why?”

Abrar watched, waiting for Zayan to turn back, to offer some explanation, some glimpse into the storm brewing behind his eyes. But Zayan remained silent, lost in his own internal tangle.

“Don’t tell me that dream girl is messing with your head?”

Zayan avoided his gaze. “I... I don’t know,” he said.

“Okay, wait.” Abrar whipped out his phone with a look of intense, mock-heroic determination.

“That’s it. I’m taking matters into my own hands.”

Zayan slowed to a walk, wiping sweat from his forehead, his brow furrowing as he watched Abrar tap aggressively on his screen. “What are you doing?”

“I’m opening a drawing app,” Abrar declared, stepping right into Zayan’s path and holding up his phone like an artist’s canvas. “Describe her. Give me the details. I’ll draw a stick-figure sketch of this phantom woman right now.”

Zayan stared at him, utterly unamused. “A stick figure.”

“A detailed stick figure,” Abrar corrected, unbothered. “Two dots for eyes, a curved line for her loose cotton dress, and I’ll even use the dark brown brush tool to scribble some henna on her hands. Once it’s ready, I’m sending it to my cousins in Dhaka.”

Zayan pinched the bridge of his nose. “Abrar, please stop—”

“I’m completely serious!” Abrar gestured grandly with his phone, his voice echoing across the park. “We’re going to print five hundred copies and post ‘MISSING / WANTED DREAM GIRL’ flyers all over Dhanmondi and Gulshan! ‘Has anyone seen this woman? She exists only in the mind of a depressed CEO in Sydney. If found, please return her so he can finally get eight hours of sleep.’”

“Are you insane?” Zayan hissed, his jaw clenching as a passing runner threw them a strange look. “You want to hang stick-figure missing posters in Bangladesh?”

“Why not?” Abrar grinned, pocketing his phone. “It’s a foolproof plan, Zayan. Either we find your dream girl, or Aunty sees the flyer, realizes her son has completely lost his mind, and expedites your marriage just to save the family honor. It’s a win-win.”

Zayan shook his head, a dry, reluctant sigh escaping his chest as he pushed past him. “I am walking away from you now.”

“Hey, don’t walk away from your solution!” Abrar called out, jogging after him with a laugh. “I’m putting a little red dupatta on the stick figure right now, Zayan! It’s going to be a masterpiece!”

“You are impossible,” Zayan said angrily.

Abrar finally placed his hand on Zayan’s shoulder. “Dreams are dreams, Zayan. They’re figments of our imagination, not reality.”

“I know. But... she feels so real.”

“Maybe she represents something you’re yearning for. Something deeper than fast cars and board meetings. Maybe it’s time to stop running and face what your heart truly desires.”

Zayan fell into silence, deep in contemplation.

Abrar nudged Zayan playfully and chirped, “Don’t worry, buddy. Whatever it is, we’ll figure it out together. Now, how about we pick up the pace? I’m starting to feel rusty.”

Zayan cracked a smile. “You and your rusty bones. Let’s go.”

They resumed jogging, a sense of newfound understanding hanging in the air. The dream girl remained a mystery. A mystery that Zayan desperately wanted to solve.

Zayan’s laughter intertwined with the clinking of glasses and the lively hum of the restaurant. He was engrossed in conversation with Marco when his gaze, like moths drawn to a flame, darted beyond the window.

Marco’s question pierced the bubble of Zayan’s preoccupation. “Lost in the sauce, Zayan? That faraway look is back.”

Shaking his head, Zayan masked his thoughts with a smile. “Nah, just thinking.”

He attempted to dismiss the feeling, but once again, something outside the window caught his attention.

Zayan froze, his body tensing like a bowstring pulled taut. “Wait... there!”

He shot up, eyes fixed on something outside the window, a focal point invisible to his companions. Their confused stares followed his gaze but found nothing. “What is it, man?” Abrar chuckled. “Did you spot a five-star steak walking by?”

Ignoring them, Zayan’s eyes burned with desperate hope. “I have to...”

He shoved back his chair, the loud clatter silencing the table’s chatter. Heads turned, eyes widening at the sudden outburst. Zayan was already on his feet, pushing past the stunned waiters, a whirlwind of purpose on a mission only he could see. The frantic rhythm of his movements echoed as he burst out of the restaurant. The night air was a stark contrast to the warm glow left behind. The city’s sounds sharpened, amplifying the tension as he weaved through the crowd, oblivious to startled shouts and bumped shoulders.

“Zayan!” Marco’s voice chased after him, tinged with concern and bewilderment. “Where are you going?”

But Zayan’s answer, barely a whisper, was lost in the wind, “Somewhere I need to be!”

He reached the street’s end, the asphalt stretching infinitely before him. However, the girl, the figure his eyes craved, was nowhere to be seen. Disappointment washed over him, a wave crashing against the jagged rocks of his hope.

Zayan stood frozen at the edge of the glass doors, the humid Sydney night air pressing against his suit jacket. His pulse hammered in his throat as his eyes combed the bustling pedestrian harbor. Nothing. Just tourists, couples laughing under the festoon lights, and the distant hum of city traffic.

She wasn’t there. Of course she wasn’t.

He let out a sharp, ragged breath, running both hands over his face as the sheer absurdity of what he had just done crashed over him. He had sprinted out of an exclusive, five-star harborfront restaurant mid-appetizer because a shadow in a cotton scarf had caught his eye.

Abrar caught up to him, skidding to a halt on the polished timber deck, completely out of breath. “Zayan... mate... did you just... chase a ghost into a crowd of tourists?”

“I thought...” Zayan’s jaw clenched, his pride stinging worse than his aching lungs. “Forget it.”

He turned back toward the restaurant, smoothing his tailored blazer with swift, tense movements. “I need to check something with management.”

Abrar stared at him, bewildered. “Check what?”

“The security footage,” Zayan said, his voice dropping into the cold, authoritative tone he used in boardrooms. He pulled out his phone, already scrolling to his head of security’s contact. “If she passed through the patio entrance, the exterior CCTV cameras on the north pier will have caught her face. I’ll have Marcus pull the footage and run a match.”

Abrar grabbed Zayan’s wrist, looking at him like he had officially lost his mind. “Zayan. Look at me.”

Zayan stopped, his thumb hovering over the screen.

“You want to call your high-end corporate security detail—men who are trained to prevent industrial espionage—to analyze CCTV footage for a woman who exists only inside your head?” Abrar asked, his voice a mixture of absolute disbelief and stifled laughter. “What are you going to tell Marcus? ‘Find the girl with the henna who twirls in my dreams’?”

Zayan stared at his phone. The cold logic hit him like a bucket of ice water. Slowly, painfully, he lowered his hand and shoved the phone back into his pocket.

“Let’s go back inside,” Zayan muttered, turning stiffly toward their table.

“Oh, absolutely,” Abrar grinned, falling into step beside him. “I can’t wait to hear how you explain your little Olympic sprint to Marco.”

When Zayan returned to the candlelit table, Marco was halfway through a glass of vintage red, looking thoroughly baffled.

Zayan cleared his throat, pulling out his chair and sitting down with an eerie, rigid composure. “Marco. My sincere apologies for the sudden disruption.”

“Is everything alright, Zayan?” Marco asked, eyeing him with genuine concern. “You looked as if you saw an assassin.”

“Everything is perfectly under control,” Zayan replied smoothly, resting his hands folded on the table in his most practiced executive posture. “I thought I spotted an international associate from our Asian logistics branch walking past the terrace. It was a matter of urgent corporate sensitivity regarding a... pending acquisition. However, upon closer inspection, I realized I was mistaken. Please, accept my apologies. Let us resume our discussion on the European expansion.”

Across the table, Abrar buried his face directly into his linen napkin, his shoulders shaking violently with suppressed laughter.

Marco blinked, taking a slow sip of his wine. “Ah. I see. A logistics error.”

“Precisely,” Zayan said, his face a mask of absolute seriousness, though a faint flush rose along his neck.

Abrar finally emerged from his napkin, wiping a tear from his eye. He leaned over, clapping a heavy, affectionate hand onto Zayan’s back, knocking the CEO slightly forward.

“Don’t mind him, Marco,” Abrar chuckled, his eyes dancing with mischief. “He’s just suffering from severe work fatigue.” Abrar turned his head closer to Zayan’s ear, lowering his voice into a loud whisper that Marco could still clearly hear.

“I give it two weeks, brother,” Abrar murmured, grinning ear to ear. “Two weeks before Aunty sees you sprinting after air, realizes you’ve completely unraveled, and sends the wedding invitations out to the entire diaspora. Get ready for the shehnai, Zayan. Your single days are officially numbered.”

Zayan slowly turned his head, throwing Abrar a look that could cut glass, but he didn’t say a word. He simply picked up his water glass, took a slow drink, and prayed the earth would open up beneath his chair.

“Dude, seriously, what’s going on? We’re starting to think you’re sleepwalking.”

Zayan looked up, eyes haunted by a strange blend of longing and frustration.

“I am not feeling well. I want to go home,” he said, his voice hoarse.

His friends exchanged worried glances. Zayan left. The Mercedes emerged from the neon labyrinth, the open road stretching before it like a blank canvas. He shook his head, the weight of his unspoken question hanging heavy in the air. Am I chasing a phantom or something more? The answer, like the girl in his dreams, remained tantalizingly out of reach. Zayan gripped the steering wheel, his jaw clenched. “I can’t live like this,” he declared, his voice echoing in the hushed cabin. A vow, a commitment to unraveling the mystery.

---------

The following Friday afternoon, Abrar pulled the Mercedes into a narrow suburban street and parked beside a eucalyptus tree.

Zayan looked out the window.

Then at Abrar.

Then back at the house.

“Where are we?”

Abrar switched off the engine.

“We’re here.”

“For what?”

Abrar turned toward him with the solemn expression of a man about to deliver life-changing news.

“To meet the man who can solve your problem.”

Zayan’s eyes narrowed.

“What problem?”

“The girl.”

Zayan went still.

Abrar nodded gravely.

“The dream girl.”

Zayan stared at him.

“I told you she’s probably related to stress.”

“And I told you that’s what people say before discovering they’ve been haunted for six months.”

“She isn’t haunting me.”

“She appears in your dreams repeatedly.”

“Yes.”

“She has henna.”

“Yes.”

“She calls your name.”

Zayan hesitated.

“Yes.”

Abrar pointed dramatically toward the house.

“Exactly.”

Zayan sighed.

“Who lives here?”

“A very respected Huzoor.”

“A Huzoor?”

“Yes.”

“What is his name?”

Abrar paused.

“I don’t know.”

Zayan slowly turned his head.

“You don’t know his name?”

“Names aren’t important.”

“Names are generally quite important when you’re taking me to someone’s house.”

Abrar waved dismissively.

“My uncle knows him.”

“Your uncle?”

“Yes.”

“Has your uncle actually met him?”

“Of course.”

“How many times?”

Abrar looked toward the windshield.

“That’s not relevant.”

“Then why did you say it?”

“Because it sounded reassuring.”

Zayan closed his eyes.

“I’m going home.”

Abrar immediately locked the doors.

“No.”

“Open the door.”

“No.”

“Abrar.”

“You’re coming inside.”

“I am not going to some unidentified man’s house because you diagnosed me with a jinn.”

“I didn’t diagnose you with a jinn.”

“You called her a female jinn.”

“I said possibly a female jinn.”

“You also said she followed me from another country.”

“That was a theory.”

“You said she liked my hair.”

Abrar shrugged.

“It is good hair.”

Zayan stared at him.

Abrar smiled.

“Come on.”

Five minutes later, they stood at the front door.

Zayan adjusted his jacket, already regretting every decision that had led him there.

Abrar knocked.

Nothing.

He knocked again.

Footsteps approached from inside.

The door opened.

And Zayan froze.

A tall man stood before them.

He looked to be in his late thirties.

Light brown hair.

Blue eyes.

Tanned skin.

A faded navy polo shirt.

Board shorts.

Bare feet.

He looked less like a South Asian religious scholar and more like a man who had just returned from surfing at Bondi Beach.

The man smiled.

“G’day.”

Silence.

Zayan slowly looked at Abrar.

Abrar smiled back.

“Assalamu alaikum, Huzoor.”

The man raised one hand.

“Wa alaikum assalam, brother.”

Zayan’s eyebrows climbed.

Abrar beamed.

“See?”

Zayan lowered his voice.

“He’s Australian.”

“Yes.”

“He’s wearing board shorts.”

“Yes.”

“He looks like he owns a jet ski.”

Abrar frowned.

“Don’t judge a book by its cover.”

“I am not judging him.”

“You’re judging his shorts.”

“I am observing his shorts.”

The man cleared his throat.

“Are you gentlemen coming in?”

Abrar immediately stepped inside.

“Yes, Huzoor.”

Zayan remained at the doorway.

The man smiled politely.

“You must be Zayan.”

Zayan’s expression changed.

“How do you know my name?”

Abrar elbowed him.

“I told him.”

“You told him?”

“Obviously.”

“When?”

“On the phone.”

Zayan looked at him suspiciously.

“You called him?”

“Of course.”

“What exactly did you tell him?”

Abrar hesitated.

“Just the important things.”

The Australian man gestured toward the sitting room.

“Come. Sit.”

Zayan entered reluctantly.

The sitting room was surprisingly ordinary.

A television.

A coffee table.

A bookshelf.

A decorative Qur’an on a shelf.

And, sitting beside it, a framed photograph of the man holding a giant fish.

Zayan stared at the photograph.

Then at the man.

Then back at the photograph.

Abrar whispered, “He’s very spiritual.”

Zayan whispered back, “He’s holding a barramundi.”

“Maybe the barramundi is spiritual.”

The man sat down opposite them.

“My name is Hamza.”

Zayan nodded.

“Nice to meet you.”

Hamza smiled.

“So.”

He leaned forward.

“What seems to be the problem?”

Abrar immediately pointed at Zayan.

“Dreams.”

Zayan closed his eyes.

Hamza looked at him.

“What kind of dreams?”

“A woman.”

Hamza’s eyebrows rose.

“A woman?”

“Yes.”

“Does she speak?”

“Yes.”

“Does she smile?”

“Sometimes.”

“Does she wear henna?”

Zayan’s head snapped up.

“Yes.”

Abrar slapped his knee.

“I told you!”

Hamza nodded knowingly.

“Interesting.”

Zayan leaned forward.

“How did you know about the henna?”

Hamza smiled.

“Your friend told me.”

Zayan slowly turned toward Abrar.

Abrar’s smile disappeared.

“I may have mentioned it.”

“You mentioned it?”

“Briefly.”

“How briefly?”

“About twenty minutes.”

Zayan stared at him.

Hamza cleared his throat.

“Anyway.”

He folded his hands.

“This may be a spiritual matter.”

Zayan’s expression hardened.

“Or it may be psychological.”

Hamza looked slightly offended.

“Psychological?”

“Yes.”

“Do you believe in jinn?”

“Of course.”

“Then why do you dismiss the possibility?”

“I don’t dismiss it. I simply don’t assume every unusual dream is caused by a jinn.”

Abrar nodded thoughtfully.

“That’s actually very reasonable.”

Zayan looked at him.

“You were calling her a female jinn an hour ago.”

“I contain multitudes.”

Hamza suddenly stood.

“Wait here.”

He disappeared into another room.

Zayan leaned toward Abrar.

“If he comes back holding a goat, I’m leaving.”

Abrar whispered, “Don’t be disrespectful.”

“If he brings a goat, I am absolutely being disrespectful.”

A few moments later, Hamza returned carrying a small glass bottle.

Zayan stared at it.

“What is that?”

“Special water.”

Zayan looked at Abrar.

Abrar’s face lit up.

“I told you!”

Hamza placed the bottle on the table.

“Drink this every morning for seven days.”

Zayan didn’t touch it.

“What is in it?”

“Water.”

“Just water?”

“Specially prepared water.”

“How?”

Hamza hesitated.

“Prayer.”

Zayan’s expression softened slightly.

“If Qur’an was recited over it, that’s one thing.”

Hamza nodded.

“Exactly.”

Zayan reached for the bottle.

Then stopped.

“Which verses?”

Hamza blinked.

“All of them.”

“All of them?”

“Yes.”

Zayan stared.

“That’s not exactly an answer.”

Hamza shifted in his seat.

Abrar suddenly coughed.

Zayan looked at him.

“You’re suspicious too.”

“No.”

“You are.”

“I’m just clearing my throat.”

Hamza leaned closer.

“Listen carefully.”

His voice dropped dramatically.

“This woman in your dreams may be connected to a powerful jinn.”

Zayan’s face went blank.

Abrar leaned forward.

“How powerful?”

“Very.”

“How powerful?”

Hamza glanced around.

“Extremely.”

Abrar swallowed.

“Could it be... ancient?”

“Possibly.”

Zayan rubbed his forehead.

“Please don’t encourage him.”

Hamza continued.

“There are entities that can attach themselves to people.”

Zayan nodded.

“I understand.”

“And sometimes they appear as beautiful women.”

Abrar’s eyes widened.

“That’s exactly what he said!”

Zayan looked at him.

“I never said beautiful.”

“You said pretty.”

“That’s different.”

“Not spiritually.”

Zayan ignored him.

“How do you know this woman is a jinn?”

Hamza paused.

Then confidently replied:

“Her henna.”

Zayan stared.

“What about her henna?”

“Jinn like henna.”

“Do they?”

“Yes.”

“Is there any evidence for that?”

Hamza opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

Abrar looked between them.

“Maybe it’s an advanced field.”

Zayan slowly leaned back.

“I’m leaving.”

He stood.

Abrar grabbed his sleeve.

“Wait.”

“No.”

“Give him a chance.”

“He just told me henna proves my dream woman is a jinn.”

Hamza suddenly raised a finger.

“Not just henna.”

Zayan stopped.

“What else?”

Hamza looked at him intensely.

“She twirls.”

Zayan blinked.

Abrar gasped.

“Oh, no.”

“What?”

“She twirls?”

“Yes.”

Abrar looked genuinely alarmed.

“That’s serious.”

Zayan stared at both men.

“Why?”

Hamza lowered his voice.

“Jinn women are known to twirl.”

Zayan’s mouth fell open.

Abrar nodded solemnly.

“I’ve heard that too.”

“No, you haven’t.”

“I have.”

“Where?”

Abrar paused.

“Facebook.”

Zayan closed his eyes.

A long silence followed.

Then Hamza’s phone rang.

He glanced at the screen.

“Sorry.”

He answered.

“Yeah, mate?”

Zayan’s eyes opened.

Hamza turned away.

“Yeah, I’ll send you the invoice tonight.”

Pause.

“No, the fake certificate package is separate.”

Zayan slowly turned toward Abrar.

Abrar’s eyes widened.

Hamza continued.

“Yeah, tell the bloke I can make him look like he graduated from Melbourne Uni.”

Zayan stood completely still.

Abrar whispered.

“Maybe there’s an explanation.”

Hamza turned around.

“Yeah, no worries. See you tonight.”

He ended the call.

Silence.

Zayan stared at him.

Hamza stared back.

Abrar stared at both of them.

Finally Zayan spoke.

“What certificate package?”

Hamza’s face changed.

“I can explain.”

Abrar stood.

“I think we should hear him out.”

Zayan turned toward him.

“You brought me to a fake religious healer.”

“I didn’t know he was fake.”

Hamza quickly interrupted.

“I’m not fake.”

Zayan pointed toward the phone.

“You just offered someone a fake university certificate.”

“That is completely unrelated.”

“How?”

Hamza hesitated.

“It is... spiritually unrelated.”

Zayan stared.

Abrar whispered, “That’s not helping.”

Hamza sighed.

“Fine.”

He slumped into his chair.

“I am not a Huzoor.”

Abrar’s jaw dropped.

“What?”

“I never said I was.”

“You absolutely said you were.”

“No, your uncle’s friend said I was.”

Abrar stared at him.

“My uncle’s friend?”

“Yes.”

“Who?”

Hamza shrugged.

“Some bloke named Rashid.”

Abrar’s expression slowly collapsed.

“Rashid?”

“Yes.”

“My uncle’s accountant?”

Hamza nodded.

“That’s the one.”

Zayan put both hands over his face.

For several seconds, nobody spoke.

Then Abrar looked at Hamza.

“So... you’re not an imam?”

“No.”

“A scholar?”

“No.”

“A healer?”

“Absolutely not.”

“A jinn specialist?”

Hamza looked offended.

“I sell used cars.”

Zayan slowly lowered his hands.

“Of course you do.”

Hamza pointed toward the bottle.

“The water is still free.”

Zayan stood.

“No.”

Abrar followed him toward the door.

“Wait.”

Zayan turned.

“What?”

Abrar looked back at Hamza.

“Do you at least have a good used Mercedes?”

Hamza smiled.

“Actually, I’ve got a 2019 model outside.”

Zayan stared at his best friend.

“Abrar.”

“What?”

“We are leaving.”

Abrar nodded.

“Fine.”

They stepped outside.

The door closed behind them.

They walked silently toward the Mercedes.

Zayan unlocked the car.

Abrar opened the passenger door.

Before getting in, he looked at Zayan.

“Technically, the Australian accent made him seem trustworthy.”

Zayan stared at him.

“You thought the accent made him trustworthy?”

“Yes.”

“You heard him say ‘g’day’ and decided he was a religious authority?”

Abrar climbed into the car.

“I panicked.”

Zayan got behind the wheel.

“You are never choosing my religious advisers again.”

Abrar buckled his seat belt.

“Fair.”

Zayan started the engine.

A beat passed.

Abrar looked out the window.

“Still...”

Zayan sighed.

“What?”

“Kevin.”

“What about Kevin?”

“The jinn.”

Zayan slowly turned his head.

“What jinn?”

“The one Hamza was going to name later.”

“I don’t think there was a Kevin.”

Abrar frowned.

“You can’t prove that.”

Zayan drove away.

For the first time in days, the corner of his mouth twitched.

Abrar noticed.

“You smiled.”

“I did not.”

“You did.”

“I absolutely did not.”

“You smiled because of Kevin.”

“I’m going to throw you out of this car.”

Abrar laughed.

“See? Marriage isn’t the only cure. Good friends work too.”

Zayan shook his head.

“Allah help me.”

“Ameen.”

And for once, the words were followed by laughter rather than another argument.

---------

Zayan sat up in the darkness, his lungs fighting for air as the phantom press of his hands still burned into his skin. The echo of her crying out—“Zayan... what are you doing? Stop it... you are hurting me now. I said stop it...“—rang violently in his ears, louder than the quiet hum of his air conditioner.

His face and ears burned hot, flushed with a sudden wave of shame and embarrassment. He dragged his damp hands across his face, but he couldn’t rub away the lingering feeling of dirtiness clinging to his skin. It hadn’t felt like a mere bad dream; it had felt horribly, terrifyingly real.

The shame sat like lead in his stomach. How could he tell anyone about this? How could he tell Abrar, or his mother, or face himself in the mirror when his own mind was haunting him with scenes of causing her pain?

He walked to the washroom and gripped the edge of the marble sink, staring blankly down at the drain as cold water ran over his hands. He couldn’t bring himself to look up into the mirror—he couldn’t face his own reflection. A deep, agonizing prickle of shame pulsed behind his eyes.

What was wrong with him?

He had always prided himself on his control, his discipline, his restraint. Yet his own subconscious was pulling him into nightmares so vivid, so horribly raw, that the sensation of her tears and her desperate cries felt like a stain on his skin. Was he really so desperate, so deeply disturbed inside, that his mind would construct such filthy, violent scenes? The thought alone made a wave of nausea rise in his throat.

Closing his eyes tight, Zayan splashed icy water over his face again and again, trying to drown out the lingering memory of her terrified voice echoing through his mind.

“Stop it... you are hurting me...”

He leaned heavily against the counter, his wet hair dripping onto the stone. The lingering warmth of his skin felt sickening. He needed the darkness of the night to swallow him whole, but deep down, a cold, terrifying dread began to take root: no matter how many times he washed his hands, he couldn’t scrub away a memory he didn’t even understand.

----

Author’s Note 🌙

Okay, so my lovely Dream Chasers 🌙✨ (for this story you guys are Dream Chasers — no arguing 😌) before anything else — welcome back, and welcome for the first time, depending on who’s reading this 👋

To my long-time readers 💕: if this story feels familiar, that’s because it is. This was a complete book once. But the more I sat with it, the more I felt certain parts were underdeveloped — Muntaha’s arc deserved more room to breathe 🥹, Zayan’s guilt needed more weight before the dreams even started, and honestly, I wasn’t done with either of them the first time around. So I made the call to rework it properly rather than leave it as something I knew could be more. That’s what you’re reading now — not a repost, a rebuild 🔨🌙

To my new readers 🫶: hi! You’re walking into a story about a woman who almost lost everything trying to survive her own grief 💔, and a man on the other side of the world who has no idea yet how much his past is about to catch up to him 👀. You don’t need to have read the old version. This one stands on its own.

A quick honesty note 🤍, since I try to always give you that instead of silence: I’m heading into a busy stretch with my studies 📚😭, so updates on this one may come slower than I’d like. I’m not disappearing — I just wanted you to know upfront rather than let you wonder.

What I do want, though, is to hear from you. Old readers and new readers both 🌙 So here’s how we’re doing that from now on —

🌙 The Zaeem Circle — Chapter Check-In

(Every chapter, same ten, same place. If you’ve been here before, you’ll know what to expect. If you’re new, welcome to the ritual 🤍)

One word — what are you feeling right now, this exact second? 😶Old readers only — one thing you remember from the first version that you’re hoping makes it into this one? 🌙New readers only — one thing that already has your attention? 👀Muntaha or Zayan — whose chapter hit harder this time? 💔Yes or no — did “I rely only upon Allah now” get you the way it got me writing it? 🤲Abrar or Hamza — who’s funnier, no debate? 😂One word — how are we feeling about “Kevin the jinn” as a recurring bit? 👻Zaeem’s name means “leader” — did you catch that the first time, or just now? 🌙If you had to warn Zayan about one thing before he meets Muntaha, what would you tell him? ⚠️Tag someone who needs to start reading this with you 🏷️

Same as always — I read every single answer, even the one-word ones. Especially the one-word ones, honestly. That’s usually where the real reaction is 🤍

Your author, who is completely unhinged about her stories and will rewrite one from scratch the moment she feels something is lacking 😶