When the World stopped
1087 Words
Episode Five
The phone call came just after Fajr, when the city was still rubbing sleep from its eyes. Zayd almost ignored it, thinking it was another shareholder panic. But when he saw the name flashing on the screen, he answered.
“Rahman?” The voice on the other end cracked. “It’s Tariq. He’s gone.”
Zayd sat up in bed, his heart lurching. “Gone? What do you mean, gone?”
“Hamza. Last night. Heart attack. They said it was quick.”
The words blurred. Zayd gripped the phone tighter. “That’s impossible. He was thirty-eight. We were supposed to—”
“I’m sorry,” Tariq said softly. “The janazah is after Dhuhr at Masjid Noor.”
The line went dead.
Zayd sat frozen, staring at the city skyline beyond his window. Hamza. His closest friend, his partner-in-crime in late-night business schemes, the man who always pushed him to dream bigger, chase harder, spend freer. Now he was… gone. Just like that.
No last meeting. No goodbye. Just silence.
For the first time in years, Zayd felt a cold shiver that no amount of money or control could chase away.
---
The mosque was overflowing by Dhuhr. Rows upon rows of men filled the courtyard, shoulders brushing, voices subdued. The wooden bier carrying Hamza’s body lay at the front, draped in a simple green cloth embroidered with Qur’anic verses.
Zayd stood among the crowd, but he felt like a stranger. He watched as the imam gave a short reminder before the prayer, his voice steady.
“Remember, brothers, death is not far from any of us. Yesterday, our brother walked among us. Today, he lies before us. Tomorrow, it could be you or me. Prepare for the journey that no wealth, no power, no name can delay.”
The words hit Zayd like stones. He clenched his fists, his throat tight. Tomorrow, it could be you.
When the imam raised his hands for the janazah prayer, Zayd mimicked the motion awkwardly, the movements unfamiliar. He whispered the words as best he could, though his tongue felt heavy. Around him, men wept softly, their tears sincere.
But Zayd’s eyes burned for another reason: fear.
---
After the burial, mourners lingered in the cemetery, comforting Hamza’s widow and two small children. Zayd stood at a distance, unable to move closer. The sight of those little hands clutching their mother’s dress shattered him. That could have been Layla. That could have been Ummi.
He turned away, struggling to breathe. And then—he saw her.
Amina.
She was standing quietly with the women, her hand on the widow’s shoulder, speaking words Zayd couldn’t hear. Her presence was calm, steady, like an anchor in the storm. The widow leaned into her as though drawing strength.
Something twisted in Zayd’s chest. He wanted to go to her, not just because of the faith she carried, but because for the first time in his life, he longed for someone who wouldn’t look at him as a provider, a name, or a bank account. Someone who might just look at him as a man trying to survive his own storms.
When the crowd began to thin, he found himself drifting toward her, like a moth to flame.
---
She noticed him before he spoke. Her eyes softened. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
His voice cracked. “I still can’t believe it. One moment he was here. The next…” He exhaled, shaking his head. “He had plans. Dreams. He wanted to buy a villa in Spain next year. We talked about it just last week.”
Amina’s gaze was steady. “And now, none of that matters.”
He looked at her sharply, but there was no cruelty in her tone—only truth.
“I don’t know how to do this,” he admitted, surprising himself with his honesty. “I’ve spent my life chasing things, and now I don’t even know what for. If this is what it all comes down to…” His voice broke. “I’m scared.”
Her expression softened further. “Fear is natural. Even the Prophet ﷺ said, ‘Remember often the destroyer of pleasures—death.’ It’s not meant to paralyze us. It’s meant to wake us.”
Zayd swallowed hard. “And what if I don’t know how to wake up?”
“Then you start where you are,” she said simply. “You take one step. Even a small one. Allah meets His servant in every step.”
The cemetery was quiet around them, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows. For a heartbeat, the world shrank to just the two of them—his brokenness, her calm, the strange thread weaving them closer with every word.
Zayd’s eyes lingered on her. “You make it sound… possible.”
“It is possible,” she replied, her voice low. “But only if you stop running from yourself.”
Her words pierced deeper than any lecture. He wanted to laugh it off, to deflect as he always did. But instead, he just stood there, staring at her, something raw and unspoken passing between them.
Finally, she stepped back. “I should go. The widow needs me.”
He nodded, though a part of him wanted to stop her, to keep her in that moment a little longer.
As she walked away, the wind caught her scarf, lifting it slightly before settling again. And in that fleeting motion, Zayd felt something stir that terrified him almost as much as death: longing.
---
That night, his apartment was darker than ever. He sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the prayer rug folded neatly in the corner—the one his mother had placed there months ago, hoping he might use it.
For the first time, he unfolded it. Laid it out on the floor.
He stood there, awkward, heart racing. The words of the janazah imam echoed in his ears. Tomorrow, it could be you.
Slowly, clumsily, he raised his hands. Whispered the words he half-remembered. Bowed, prostrated, trembled.
It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t polished. But it was real.
And as his forehead touched the ground, hot tears spilled onto the rug.
For the first time in years, Zayd Rahman prayed.
Not for deals, not for success. Just for mercy. Just for direction.
And somewhere in the silence, he felt a flicker of something he thought he had lost forever: hope.
- Writer
