Chapter 1
This story is not only about love, pain, and second chances—it's about how Allah changes hearts when we least expect it. It reflects how He forgives, guides, and brings people back to the path of truth with mercy no soul can fully comprehend. It reminds us that no matter how far we’ve gone, His door is always open.
"Indeed, He is the One who accepts repentance from His servants and forgives sins, and He knows whatever you do."
— Surah Ash-Shura (42:25)
CHAPTER 01
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"Are you certain you want to do this?" Gazing at the man seated next to him, Waseem inquired. Instead of responding to him, he simply nodded his head and turned to face the Imam, who was grinning subtly as he gazed at them both. "My son," the Imam said, glancing at the man seated next to Waseem, whose eyes were filled with intense agony. “Islam begins with a sentence. It goes beyond just words. It's a door. Once you say it with your heart, you enter a new life—one in which all that has come before is forgiven, and all that lies ahead is up to Allah to guide." The man next to Waseem sighed deeply, tears glimmering in his eyes. "I get it," he said quietly. Imam smiled gently at him before proceeding. “The Shahadah states that Muhammad (p.b.u.h.) is Allah's Messenger and that Allah alone is deserving of worship. When you say it, you are expressing your belief in one God. He has no partner and no son. He is not born, nor does he give birth. And that the Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him) is His final messenger, like Moses, Jesus, and the prophets who came before him." His lips trembled as he nodded slowly. Leaning forward, the imam said, "You will say:
Ash-hadu alla ilaha illallah, wa ash-hadu anna Muhammadur Rasoolullah.”
With a trembling voice, he repeated it, his chest rapidly rising and falling. The room fell silent. Sacred. A man reborn. The imam gently guided him and helped him pronounce the words slowly. Waseem's heart-eyes were fixed on his friend, unable to comprehend that a man who had once committed many sins was now converting to Islam. He found it difficult to believe, especially since his friend was the last person he expected to become religious. But oh well…God writes stories far beyond our understanding—He changes hearts, turns tides, and unfolds plans in moments we least expect, all with a wisdom only He holds. “From today, all your past sins are erased. You are like a newborn. And you have been honored by Allah, the Most Merciful. A faint smile came to his lips as he patted his friend's head and listened to the imam's words. “He chose you, son. You were lost, but He called you. So cling firmly to His rope. Imam congratulated Waseem's friend and gave him a pat on the back before embracing him. Tears welled up in his friend's eyes, as did Waseem's; he knew it was an emotional moment for him. It was the beginning of his new journey, and he could not wait to help and guide him in any way he could.
A FEW YEARS EARLIER...
It was early morning. Sunlight filtered softly through the window, casting golden patches on the floor. The air outside was slightly chilly, and a gentle breeze drifted in, making the curtains sway gracefully. The only sounds in the quiet room were the ticking of the clock and the soft, persistent coughs of an elderly woman.
She appeared to be in her late 50s or early 60s, lying on a small bed, frail and pale. Her eyes were red and rimmed with dark circles—anyone who saw her would immediately feel concerned. She coughed again and called out, “Layla…”—her voice weak, but loud enough to echo slightly in the silence. Her eyes remained fixed on the door, waiting for it to open.
It had been a week since the fever hit her, and no medicine seemed to be working. Her daughter had taken her to several doctors, but there had been no relief. Life had become difficult ever since her husband passed away. He was their pillar—holding the family together—and without him, things had only become harder.
The door creaked open, and the woman took a deep breath, attempting to sit up despite the sharp pain in her back. She leaned against the headboard, wincing.
A young girl, around 18, stepped into the room with a tray in her hands. She gently pushed the door open with her foot. A few strands of her hair had fallen over her eyes, and she blew them away with a soft puff of breath—an innocent habit that never failed to make her mother smile. As expected, a small chuckle escaped the woman’s lips.
Her daughter smiled in return, stepping closer to the bed. She wore a long, light pink frock that draped beautifully around her figure, modest yet elegant. A matching dupatta was wrapped loosely around her neck. She placed the tray on the bedside table and bent slightly as she did so.
"Have you had your breakfast, Layla?” her mother asked gently.
That was her name—Layla. A beautiful name for a beautiful soul.
Layla smiled, her hands busy stirring the tea. “I haven’t,” she replied softly. “You’re more important.” She handed the cup to her mother and then placed a couple of slices of bread onto a plate. “So you should eat first.” She dusted her hands afterward, another small gesture her mother found endearing.
Layla then walked over to the small couch where her university bag rested. She unzipped it and took out her books, sitting down to revise her chapters for an upcoming test.
Her mother quietly sipped the tea, her gaze never leaving her daughter. Layla was so hardworking and focused—it filled her with pride and ache all at once.
“Layla,” she said after a moment, her voice a bit firmer, “you can’t just start studying without eating. Come and eat with me.”
Layla didn’t respond, her eyes still glued to the pages as she mumbled her lessons, flipping through the textbook at lightning speed. Seeing no response, her mother’s face grew stern.
“I’m talking to you.”
Layla looked up at once, seeing the displeasure on her mother’s face. She sighed, closed her book, and said, “Mom, I’m not hungry. You know I don’t feel li—”
But her mother cut her off.
“I don’t want to hear it. Come here. Sit beside me.”
With another sigh of defeat, Layla stood and walked over to the bed. She sat beside her mother and began spreading jam on a slice of bread. The aroma of tea calmed her nerves, and she poured herself a cup from the pot. As she chewed her bread, her cheeks puffed slightly—a sight her mother always found too cute to ignore.
“Mama…” Layla mumbled with her mouth full, her eyes still on the bread, “I’ve asked Miss Cheryl to come over once I leave. You won’t feel lonely.”
Her mother looked down, her lips pressed into a thin line. The last thing she wanted was to be a burden—especially not on her daughter. But deep down, she knew Layla had to work, had to study. She couldn’t keep asking her to stay.
Layla noticed the change in her mother’s expression. She took a sip of tea, then scooted closer, gently cupping her mother’s cheeks.
“Mom, I know you're worried about bothering someone else, but Cheryl was more than happy to help when I asked. She’s alone at home during the day anyway. I thought it’d be good for both of you—she gets company, and you get someone to talk to.”
But her mother’s glistening eyes told her another story. Layla’s heart squeezed.
“She can sit with me, sure,” her mother finally said, voice breaking a little, “but who’ll give me medicine? Who’ll really take care of me? I don’t want to be—”
“You’re not a burden!” Layla interrupted, firm but loving. “I asked her myself and she agreed with a big smile. She’s sweet, Mom. She’ll take care of you. You don’t have to worry.”
She stroked her mother’s cheek gently, trying to offer reassurance, though she could still see the doubt lingering in her eyes.
Just then, her phone rang. She reached for it on the table, and a smile instantly spread across her face when she saw the caller ID. It was Cheryl.
She answered and put it on speaker, looking straight at her mother.
“Hello, Layla? When are you heading out? I’ve finished all the housework and I can come over now.”
Her mother looked a little surprised at Cheryl’s cheerful tone. A small smile tugged at her lips, and Layla noticed it—her heart warming in response.
“I’ll be leaving in ten minutes. You can come now,” Layla said.
“Perfect! I’ll be there in a few. Don’t worry, I’ll take good care of Ms. Shehnaz.”
After a few more words, Layla ended the call and looked at her mother again. This time, her mother gave her a soft, understanding nod.
Layla smiled and leaned in to kiss her forehead before hurrying to the dressing table. Her soft hair bounced as she moved. She opened a drawer, pulled out a beautiful scarf, and began setting it neatly over her head.
Wearing the hijab always brought a quiet pride to her heart—it was her identity, her strength. With it on, she looked even more graceful. Her soft features, fair skin, and big brown eyes shone under the morning light.
She slipped into her white sneakers, zipped her bag, and slung it over her shoulder.
“Alright, Mom. Allah Hafiz. I love you so much.”
She kissed her forehead one last time, picked up her phone, and left the house.
Her mother stared at the door for a long moment before closing her eyes, a deep sigh leaving her lips. She loved her daughter more than anything in the world. Layla worked so hard, not only to support herself but also to get her mother proper treatment. She deserved every happiness.
Tears welled in her eyes as she looked up, her hands slowly lifting in prayer.
"Ya Allah, please make my daughter successful. Always keep her happy. Protect her from every harm, and from every person who means her no good. Please, Ya Allah—give her all the happiness in the world.”
Because nothing in this world is more beautiful than a mother’s prayer for her child.
The low hum of voices and the clatter of trays filled the university cafeteria with life. From a distance, it looked like just another busy morning—students catching up on assignments, laughing between bites, and stealing moments of calm before classes resumed. But for Layla, seated at her usual corner table with her friends, it was more than just routine. It was one of the rare pockets of peace she allowed herself.
The moment she sat down, she found herself breathing a little easier, as though the weight of her world lightened just a bit in the company of these girls. Her fingers traced the edge of her cup absently while Olivia—her ever-so-casual junior—had one leg folded up on the chair and the other resting on the table like she owned the place.
“Have you prepared for the test?” Olivia asked, completely unbothered by her unconventional pose.
Layla stared at her with an arched brow before lightly smacking the back of her head with her notebook.
"Do you have to sit like that?” she scolded, half-serious, half-laughing.
Olivia stuck her tongue out in response.
"Oh, you think this is funny?” Layla narrowed her eyes with playful menace, grabbed Olivia by the ear, and yanked her closer. “You think I forgot what you did yesterday?”
Olivia squirmed in her seat with a dramatic little “ow,” clearly not in pain but enjoying the attention. The table erupted in giggles. Everyone was used to this dynamic by now—Olivia, a year below, had attached herself to Layla ever since orientation like a magnet. It was sweet, if not slightly chaotic.
“I-I just did it for fun!” Olivia squeaked, trying and failing to escape Layla’s grip.
Layla wasn’t having it. “You better tell me you’ve prepared for the test today or I swear I’ll—”
“Okay! Okay!” Olivia laughed nervously, brushing her hair back and clearing her throat. “I-I…”
Layla leaned back, arms crossed, lips tugging into an amused smirk. She could already see it coming.
"I haven’t prepared,” Olivia admitted, eyes wide, “but I thought we had time! You could teach me a lit—”
“No, she’s not going to waste her precious free time on teaching you,” Sarah interrupted with her usual sass, elbowing Olivia hard enough to make her whine.
“Ow, Sarah!”
Layla couldn’t help but let out a light laugh. Their bickering, though repetitive, never failed to warm her. There was a comfort in knowing how predictable these little spats were. A comfort she didn’t always get at home.
“Okay but seriously—why does our professor always throw in stuff that’s not even in the syllabus?” Hailey chimed in, leaning forward with a dramatic groan.
Sarah and Olivia both slammed their palms on the table at the same time.
“Exactly!” Sarah said. “He’s literally out to get us.”
“Right, Layla?” Olivia turned to her, but Layla was already rummaging through her bag, pulling out a small notebook filled with neat, color-coded notes.
She gave a distracted hum.
The girls exchanged glances.
“Our smartest student is back at it,” Sarah muttered sarcastically.
Layla didn’t even look up. “The test’s gonna be hard. Just want to review some points.”
She hadn’t even finished the sentence before all three girls let out synchronized gasps.
Olivia started shaking Layla’s arm like a possessed bobblehead. “You. Are. Saying. This?”
“You’ve aced every single test since the semester started and you think it’ll be hard?” Hailey blinked, clearly scandalized.
Layla just shook her head and laughed softly, not bothering to defend herself. She knew they’d keep going either way.
“I swear,” Olivia mumbled, flopping back into her chair, “I wish I were more like you.”
That made Layla pause.
“What?” she asked, eyebrows drawing together as she glanced at her.
“I said what I said,” Olivia muttered, while Hailey picked up the thought.
“Honestly, same,” she said, her voice softer. “You’re… you’re just so put together. Good grades, always calm, always prepared. Pretty. Focused. You just seem like someone who has it all figured out.”
Layla stared at her. It wasn’t annoyance she felt—it was something else. Something a little hollow. She let her gaze drift for a moment before offering a smile, the kind that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
If only they knew.
If only they understood what it took for her to keep up that illusion. The hours she studied not out of ambition, but necessity. The sleepless nights. The aching burden of being the only one holding things together at home. Her grades weren’t perfection—they were survival. Her smile wasn’t serenity—it was armor.
Her father’s death still echoed in every quiet corner of her life. And her mother—her fragile, exhausted mother—depended on her for everything. There was no luxury of falling apart. Layla had to be fine. She had to be.
She looked back at Hailey and laughed under her breath. “You don’t want to be me.”
Before anyone could respond, her phone lit up on the table.
A message. Cheryl.
“
Gave her meds and she just slept. She has gotten weak though :(."
Layla’s heart clenched, but her lips curved into a small, grateful smile. She typed back a short reply and put the phone down, aware of the eyes on her but not acknowledging them.
Her gaze drifted, locking onto some faraway spot in the cafeteria. She wasn’t seeing anything, though. She was somewhere else entirely.
Olivia leaned in, her voice gentler this time.
“Layla… your mother… how is she doing?”
It took Layla a moment to respond. When she turned to look at Olivia, her eyes carried a quiet pain that hadn’t been there a few seconds ago. She forced a small smile, the kind that hurt more to give than to hold back.
“She’s better than before,” she said softly. “Let’s hope she recovers soon.”
A beat of silence.
And then Olivia reached over and pulled her into a hug, squeezing her tightly.
“It's okay, she's gonna be fine. We are with you, okay?” Olivia whispered, tightening the hug.
Layla closed her eyes for a moment, allowing herself to melt into the comfort her friend was offering. In that small second, she almost forgot how heavy her heart had been feeling lately. Olivia's arms around her were warm—reassuring. And for a moment, everything felt a little easier to carry.
But the silence was short-lived.
A sudden set of hurried footsteps echoed in the cafeteria, followed by a loud voice that nearly startled the entire table.
“Olivia!” A girl came skidding to a stop in front of them, panting as if she had run across the entire campus.
All four girls turned to look at her, blinking at the sudden interruption.
“You won't believe this,” the girl managed between breaths, hands on her knees. “Professor Zaid isn’t coming today. Test’s cancelled.”
There was a short pause.
“What?” Olivia blinked.
“Cancelled?” Sarah repeated, sitting up straight.
“Wait—cancelled cancelled?” Hailey leaned forward with wide eyes.
“Gone, wiped off, vanished,” the girl said dramatically, straightening up. “He’s not feeling well. University sent a notification just now. Class is off. You guys are free till the next lecture.”
There was a beat of silence. Then—
“YES!” Olivia shouted, throwing her arms in the air like a child and shaking Layla by the shoulders. “Did you hear that?! I was literally about to die.”
Sarah snorted. “You didn’t even study.”
“Exactly! That’s why I was going to die!” Olivia replied dramatically, making the entire table burst into laughter again.
Layla couldn’t help but shake her head, the corners of her lips lifting in a genuine smile. The air around her felt lighter. Even if it was just a small break in a chaotic life, it was enough.
“Come on,” Hailey stood up, adjusting her shawl. “Let’s go outside. I can’t stay in this stuffy cafeteria anymore.”
"Ooooh yes! Let’s go!” Olivia chirped, already dragging Sarah by the hand.
Layla picked up her bag slowly, her smile still lingering. She looked around at her friends—laughing, talking over one another, playfully bickering—and felt a quiet warmth settle in her chest.
Maybe it was a small moment, maybe it wouldn’t matter in the long run… but right now, it was all she needed.
They walked out of the cafeteria and into the open ground just outside the main building. The sun wasn’t too harsh, and the wind carried a gentle breeze that played with the strands of Layla’s hair peeking out near her ears. Students were scattered across the field—some sitting on the grass, some taking photos, others just soaking in the brief break.
The girls settled under the shade of a tall neem tree, their laughter soon mixing with the rustling leaves and the distant buzz of campus life.
For the first time that week, Layla allowed herself to just breathe.
The world was quiet.
Too quiet, if you asked Ayden Carter—not that he ever would.
The low hum of the ceiling fan stirred the edges of the silence in his room, pushing against the half-pulled curtains that let in a wash of pale light. Not golden. Not warm. Just… there. The kind of light that didn’t ask permission before slipping in and draping itself over your face like a slap.
He lay still, back flat against the mattress, one arm bent and tucked beneath his head, the other resting loosely across his chest. His brown hair, slightly tousled but never messy enough to be called unclean, clung to one side of his forehead from where he must’ve turned in his sleep. A faint line creased his cheek—evidence of the pillow's edge. He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Eyes barely cracked open, just enough to squint through the dull brightness like someone still deciding if today was even worth the effort.
Grey eyes. Cold as steel when he wanted them to be. Right now? Just... tired.
Ayden wasn’t the kind of guy who woke up slowly. He woke up because he had to. No dramatic stretch. No existential thoughts. No peaceful sigh. Just awareness. One second he was unconscious, the next, wide awake and immediately annoyed that he was.
He blinked once. Twice. No change. Still not dead.
His eyes narrowed further as the fan ticked overhead, rhythmically offbeat. That was new. Maybe it wasn’t broken yesterday. Or maybe it was, and he didn’t care enough to notice.
A dull ache ran up his thigh. The same spot. Same reminder. He didn’t wince, didn’t reach for it. He just breathed through it, eyes still half-lidded as they flicked toward the corner of the room—where his crutches used to be. They were gone now. Packed away, apparently. Everyone said it was a good thing. Progress, healing, blah blah.
He didn’t bother checking his phone. It was still where he left it on the bedside table, charger bent at a weird angle, buzzing quietly every ten minutes from who-knows-who. Messages, probably. Someone asking if he was "doing better." Someone pretending to care.
His jaw clenched briefly, then relaxed.
Another breath.
Still quiet.
The light kept creeping in, dust particles floating like tiny ghosts across his vision. He exhaled, slow and dry, like even that had to be calculated. Then, finally, with the fluid laziness of someone who hated movement more than the morning itself, he pushed the blanket off with one leg.
His room was neat. Not in an obsessive way, just… sharp. Clean edges. Clothes folded, not thrown. Desk untouched except for a pen, a notebook, and a half-empty bottle of water. The air smelled faintly of detergent and the mint of his night lotion—something his mother always noticed but never commented on. His shirts hung ironed in the open closet, shoes aligned like he was prepping for an inspection. That was just Ayden. He didn’t like mess. Not outside. Not in.
His feet hit the floor with a dull thud. Cool tiles, cooler air. His body moved with that natural, effortless precision—like he was wired to function on autopilot. Every motion silent, deliberate. He didn’t shuffle or yawn or sigh like most people did first thing in the morning. He just moved.
He scratched the side of his neck absently, then ran a hand through his hair, pushing the strands back without a mirror. Didn’t need one. He knew what he looked like. The shadows under his eyes, the faded scar near the edge of his brow, the quiet expression that sat permanently on his face like it belonged there. Nothing new. Nothing surprising.
Ayden stood, finally—his frame unfolding from the bed like a story restarting mid-chapter. Tall, lean, his t-shirt hanging comfortably over the sharp lines of his shoulders. He moved toward the bathroom, dragging a hand across his jaw as he passed the mirror. He looked into it once.
Then looked away.
The light was a little brighter now. The day had started.
Unfortunately.
The bathroom lights flickered on with a muted hum, spilling a soft, white glow across the cold marble floor. Ayden stepped in wordlessly, still half-lidded, gaze catching on the mirror again—but he didn’t linger. Mirrors weren’t for admiring. They were for checking damage.
The faucet turned with a smooth twist of his wrist, and he splashed cold water on his face like someone trying to wash away sleep, or maybe something heavier. It dripped down his jawline in clean trails, soaking into the collar of his worn, charcoal-gray tee. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t react to the chill. Just reached for the towel hanging neatly beside the sink, dabbing at his skin with quiet efficiency.
Skincare. Not vanity. Routine.
He opened the cabinet, grabbed a slim bottle of toner—swiped it across his face in practiced, brisk motions. Next came moisturizer. No fragrance. No shine. Just clean. Bare minimum, but exact. His fingers moved with the same sharp grace everything else in his life seemed to hold. Controlled. Unbothered.
He brushed his teeth next, slow and silent, eyes fixed on the sink basin. His reflection hovered just at the edge of his vision, but he didn’t meet it. He never did for long.
By the time he stepped back into his bedroom, the early light had tilted brighter—more intrusive now. He moved toward his open closet and paused for half a second, scanning it like someone already tired of the day. Rows of shirts—pressed, spaced perfectly. Most of them dark. A few whites. A single olive green one he never wore but couldn’t throw out either.
He pulled out a black fitted button-down, unhurried. Slid it on over his shoulders, the fabric crisp and smooth. Tucked it in with one hand as he grabbed his watch off the dresser—a sleek silver face, minimal design, expensive without needing to shout about it.
Black pants followed, tailored and exact. His belt clicked into place, no fumble, no second thought. He didn’t check the mirror. Again, didn’t need to. Ayden Carter always looked like that. The kind of guy who didn’t try but always came out looking like a magazine page had just casually gotten out of bed.
His hair? Simple. He ran a comb through it once, fingers pushing it back just enough to show the edges of his forehead. No gel, no theatrics. It didn’t need it. It just stayed. Effortless. Clean. The kind of guy you glance at twice—not because he’s loud, but because there’s nothing loud about him, and somehow that’s what makes people look.
Phone in his pocket. Keys grabbed. Wallet—already in his jacket. Everything had a place.
And still—he stood by the door for a second, fingers gripping the edge of the frame like he had to prepare himself for whatever version of the world existed past it.
A low breath.
Then he walked out.
The hallway was quiet. Cream-colored walls, long windows letting in more of that too-perfect morning. Polished floors caught the reflection of his footsteps. Art lined the walls—framed, expensive, abstract. He’d stopped noticing them months ago.
He descended the stairs slowly, the kind of slow that wasn’t laziness, but disinterest. The Carter house was big. Big enough that his footsteps barely echoed. Big enough that he could’ve avoided both his parents if he really tried.
But today? Not a chance.
He turned the corner into the dining room and found them exactly where they always were. His father, in a navy suit already, scrolling through emails like the world owed him something. His mother, seated straight-backed in a silk robe, sipping coffee with her reading glasses perched low on her nose.
The dining table was a spread. Toast, eggs, fruit, some stupidly expensive jam in a glass dish. Ayden didn’t react to any of it. He slid into a chair across from them, reached for a mug, and poured himself black coffee without a word.
“Ayden,” his mother said, glancing up. Her tone walked the line between concern and irritation. “You’re limping again.”
He didn’t look up. “Thanks for the update.”
His father snorted quietly behind the screen of his tablet. “We pay for the best physiotherapy in the damn city and you still walk like someone broke your kneecap yesterday.”
“They kind of did,” Ayden replied flatly, raising the mug to his lips.
"And yet somehow you’re still managing to be a smartass.”
He chewed on a bite of toast, not bothering to butter it. “It’s called balance.”
His mother clicked her tongue. “I hope you’re not planning on being late for your first day back. I told them you’d be in by ten.”
"I’ll be in when I’m in.”
“Ayden.”
He tilted his head, finally meeting her eyes. His gaze was unreadable. Not cold. Not harsh. Just… blank. The kind of blank that made people uncomfortable. The kind that said he heard you—but didn’t care enough to make you feel heard.
“I’m going to college,” he said. “Not prison.”
His father opened his mouth. Closed it again.
Ayden pushed back from the table, half a cup of coffee left untouched. He stood, adjusted the sleeve of his shirt, and slung his bag over one shoulder.
"I’ll survive,” he said on his way out.
The door clicked behind him. Not loud. Just definite.
To be continued
