Umar's POV:
I stood there and watched her leave.
She didn't tell me her name, but I caught it anyway—Anisa.
It meant pleasant companion.
I don't know, but there was something about her. Something that pulled me in. I wanted to know more.
Not to forget that she was sarcastic and funny in her own way.
Brushing all thoughts aside, I grabbed my stuff and left. I had taken the day off to rest.
I know—it sounded silly. But I really did need the rest.
---
Here I was, driving towards the house I'd grown up in. The same house I'd lived in for 25 years. Yet it felt… unfamiliar. Strange. Unwelcoming.
When I honked the horn, the gate creaked open, and I drove in, parking in my usual spot.
Getting out of the car, I dragged my feet toward the entrance, as though pulled by invisible shackles.
Even though I returned to this house every single day, the feeling never left me.
"Assalamu alaikum," I muttered as I stepped into the parlour.
"Wa alaikas salam," came Hajiya's voice—my stepmother.
She was seated on the peach cabriole sofa, glasses perched on her nose, eyes glued to her phone.
No glance. No welcome.
The house was awfully quiet.
Ammar must've been out. He was the life of this place, the only one who made it feel like a home.
My mother had died just after giving birth to me, twenty-five years ago.
I never got to see her. Never got to brag that she was mine.
But Baba always said she was cheerful, kind, loving. I like to think I got that from her. Not that I'm bragging or anything.
Hajiya was her opposite—at least to me. She loved her son, Ammar, deeply. But me?
I tried—really tried—to see her as my own mother. But she made it nearly impossible.
As though I didn't deserve that kind of love. As though I didn't need it.
I sighed and walked upstairs.
A large portrait of my mother hung honourably on the white wall of my room.
She was smiling—soft, graceful.
Not a day passed without me pausing to admire that smile.
---
The adhan for Zuhr echoed from the mosque down the street.
I decided to shower, perform ghusl, and head out to the mosque.
---
The afternoon sun was... not so soft as it hit my face while I walked through the compound. I had to make haste—I didn't want to miss the congregational prayer. Especially not on a Friday.
"Hey! Yo! Bro!"
Ammar's voice rang out. He walked toward me with all his usual drama, his grin stretching from ear to ear.
Sometimes I wondered if his face ever hurt from all the smiling.
He pushed my shoulder playfully and narrowed his eyes.
"Wait a minute. Why are you home?"
"Took a day off," I replied simply.
"Really? Wow. Miracles do happen."
"What do you mean miracle? I take days off sometimes."
"Okey dokey. Going to the mosque?"
"Yeah."
"Let's go together."
"We'll be late if the imam starts early."
"What are you waiting for, then? Run!"
He pushed me forward and broke into a childish run himself.
I shook my head with a small smile.
Ammar. My little brother.
My only source of light in this cold, quiet mansion.
Maybe the world wasn't so cruel after all.
Because I had him.