Reap what you sow

The clouds are heavy, dark, and low, as if they are mourning with me. The police are everywhere. A strange mist crawls over the sky, swallowing the graveyard in silence. The crowd surround the car, their faces pale and eyes hollow. 'Come here..' A chilling voice rises from the mist. I freeze. My feet won't move, but the voice calls again -louder and clearer. 'Come here!.' Suddenly, I woke up breathing less. It was one of those nightmares Amera Vesiliv had been haunted by ever since her parents died in a car crash. The guilt weighed even heavier because the accident had happened while they were on their way to celebrate **her birthday**. Everyone whispered that it was her fault—and deep down, she feared they were right. Her phone buzzed. It was 5 a.m. The sky was still dark. She sat up, heart heavy, and tried to shake the dream from her mind. As a Muslim, she got up to perform wudu and offer her fajr prayer, hoping to find a little peace. Then she headed to the kitchen. There was barely anything to eat, but she made a small breakfast for herself before getting ready for the day. Her first stop was the karate academy, where she worked as an assistant instructor. The karate academy was already full of life when Amera arrived. The thud of feet on mats, the shout of instructors, the familiar rhythm of training—it was all there. But today, it all felt far away. She went through the motions, tying her belt, stretching, helping a few younger students with their form. But her mind wasn’t in the room. “Oi, Amera!” someone called out. “You alright?” It was **Chloe**, her closest friend at the academy. Blonde ponytail, sharp eyes—always picked up on the slightest change. “You’re not usually this quiet,” Chloe said, stepping closer. “You didn’t even notice me waving.” Amira blinked, slowly dragging herself back to the moment. “Sorry just tired.” Chloe crossed her arms, unconvinced. “You’ve said that every week lately. What’s really going on?” Amira hesitated, then sighed. “I’ve been having those dreams again… about my parents. The accident.” Chloe’s face softened immediately. “The one on your birthday?” Amera nodded. “They were coming to surprise me. And then… they never came. I thought I was getting better, but the dreams—they’re back. It’s like I’m stuck at that moment.” Chloe placed a comforting hand on Amera’s arm. “That’s not something you just get over. But you don’t have to carry it on your own. Talk to someone. Me, your coach—anyone. Just… don’t bottle it up.” “I don’t want to be a burden.” “You’re not,” Chloe said firmly. “You’re my mate, If it’s heavy, we carry it together. Now come on, let’s get through today. Focus on the training. Hit something. It helps.” Amera let out a faint laugh. “Thanks, Chloe.” Chloe smiled. “Anytime. Now, front stance—show these kids how it’s done" Chloe had been Amera’s best friend since childhood—the kind of friend who didn’t need to ask questions to know something was wrong. She had stood by Amera through every storm: after the accident, through the long nights with no food, the shouting matches at home, and the unspoken bruises left by her uncle’s drunken rages. Chloe knew about the debts Amera paid on his behalf, the part-time jobs, the silent suffering. And even though Amera refused help—too proud, too worn—Chloe never left. She offered quiet strength, not sympathy, and became the one constant in a life full of chaos Amera’s days were mapped out to the minute. She started her mornings at the karate academy, working from 6 a.m. to 10 a.m., helping train younger students and assisting the main instructor. As soon as her shift ended, she swapped her uniform for a delivery bag and spent the next three hours weaving through city streets on her cycle, delivering parcels from 10 to 1. She allowed herself a short break from 1 to 2—often spent sitting alone on a park bench, chewing on something simple and cheap. By 2 p.m., she was on her feet again, starting her shift as a waitress at a small, busy cafe, serving customers until 6 in the evening. She would quickly eat a quiet dinner around six, then head straight to the local grocery store, where she worked as an evening accountant from 6:30 to 10. Every hour of her day was claimed—every job a piece of her survival. By the time Amera reached home that night, her body felt like it could collapse at any moment. Every muscle ached from the weight of the day—four different jobs, endless movement, forced smiles, and constant pressure. All she wanted was to lie down and disappear into sleep. But as she stepped into the small, dimly lit house, her heart sank. The living room was a disaster—empty bottles, broken glass, a chair knocked over. Her uncle was drunk again. Slurring curses under his breath, he stumbled toward her, eyes bloodshot and wild. Before she could react, he grabbed her arm tightly, his grip digging into her skin. “Where’s the money?” he growled. “I don’t have much—just enough for groceries and bills,” she said, trying to pull away. But he didn’t listen. He forced her to hand over her wallet and took every last note. When she resisted, he shoved her hard against the wall. Not enough to break anything—but enough to leave bruises. Enough to make her wince when she breathed. As he counted the money, he sneered. “Don’t forget, you’re the reason they died. Your parents. My brother. They were coming for you.” The words struck deeper than any slap. She stood frozen, the weight of years collapsing on her shoulders. Guilt, fear, exhaustion—all of it drowned her. When he finally passed out on the couch, she slipped quietly to her room, holding back her tears until the door was shut. Then she let it all out. She cried into her pillow, her arms sore, her heart shattered. There was no comfort, no safety, no warmth. Just silence, pain, and the same echo in her head: It was your fault. She curled up in the corner of her bed, still in her work clothes, and drifted into a restless sleep, her body aching—not just from bruises, but from a life that had asked too much of her for far too long. In the middle of the night, Amera jolted awake, her heart racing, her breath caught in her throat. The dream again—flashes of the crash, her parents' voices calling her name, then silence. She sat up slowly, her body still aching, her mind clouded with sorrow and fear. Through the cracked window, the night was still and quiet, the kind of silence that made her feel even more alone. But as she sat there, she suddenly remembered—she hadn’t prayed Isha. The thought pierced through the haze of pain, guilt, and fatigue. She pulled herself from bed, moving slowly through the house, careful not to wake her uncle. After performing wudu, the cool water washing over her bruised skin like balm, she spread out her prayer mat in the corner of her room. Her voice was barely a whisper, but her heart was fully present as she stood in prayer. Afterward, she lay back down and reached for her phone. With trembling fingers, she searched for Surah Ar-Ra’d, verse 28: “Verily, in the remembrance of Allah do hearts find rest.” She played a quiet recitation of the surah and let the gentle rhythm of the words wash over her. With every verse, her chest felt a little lighter, the pain in her body slowly fading behind the warmth in her heart. Tears slipped down her cheeks—not from fear or sadness this time, but from a fragile sense of peace. She whispered to herself, “If there is no one else… there is still Allah.” The next morning, Amera woke before dawn. Her body still ached, but her heart felt steadier. She had remembered her Isha prayer, and that gave her a sense of calm. After offering Fajr, she prepared for the day ahead. Just like always, she moved through her routine—karate academy from 6 to 10, delivery runs from 10 to 1, a quiet break in the park, then the café from 2 to 6. She was used to surviving. She didn’t complain. At 6:30, she was behind the counter at the grocery store, sorting receipts, counting notes, staying sharp. Numbers calmed her—there was no space for emotion in calculation. But around 9:45, her manager stormed out of the back office. His face was red, voice raised. “There’s money missing from the till. A full 50 pounds. You were the last one to count it.” Amera froze. “I—I didn’t take anything.” But no one believed her. The CCTV was inconclusive. She pleaded with them, but her voice was shaking, and that was enough to make her look guilty. By 10:05, she had been fired. She left in silence, her fists clenched in her pockets, her head down. Another loss. Another insult. Another weight on her already breaking back. How am I going to cover rent now? she thought. Groceries? Bills? When she finally reached home, it was almost 10:30. Her key turned in the lock, but before she could step in, she noticed something strange—the door wasn’t fully shut. Inside, the lights were on. Her breath caught. She stepped in slowly, cautiously—and froze. There were people inside. At least six of them. Men in dark suits, sharp shoes, standing stiff like statues. Cold expressions. Dangerous energy. Her uncle stood in the corner, pale, nervous, silent. The living room looked different. Empty bottles gone. Carpet cleaned. But the air was thick. Like something terrible was about to happen. Amera's heart pounded. She didn't know who these people were—but they weren’t ordinary guests. And they weren’t here for tea. ******************* Amera is a Muslim girl Muslim pray five time a day FAJR (morning before sunrises) ZOHAR (mid day) ASAR (evening) MAGHREB (right after sunset) ISHA (at night)