At approximately 1:30 a.m., I found myself on my private terrace, a cigarette resting between my fingers, while the other hand gripped the cool, sturdy railing. The night air enveloped me, carrying whispers of the world beyond—a mix of solitude and solace I had come to crave. Whenever the weight of the world grew too heavy, I would retreat here, gazing at the stars with the same quiet reverence I once reserved for my Ayah.Sometimes, I like to imagine that when God called Ayah back to her eternal home, she scattered herself across the heavens, transforming into countless stars. Perhaps it was His way of showcasing her beauty to the universe, a reminder to me and anyone who dared to look up that the dead are not truly gone. They remain alive in ways we cannot fully understand, their essence woven into the fabric of existence, just beyond our mortal comprehension. Yet, I find myself complaining to God. Out of all the souls He could have called back, why did it have to be the one to whom I entrusted my heart? I never asked for riches or grandeur—only to keep the one I loved close. But my Lord, in His infinite wisdom and love, chose to test me, for perhaps He loves me more than I can fathom.All praise belongs to Allah. Keep my beloved close to You, sheltered in Your infinite mercy. And when the time is right, reunite us gracefully in the warmth of Your mighty presence, where no distance or sorrow will ever separate us again.I had heard many stories about Islam, which Ayah shared with me. She always found time to tell me about her faith, her voice soft yet resolute, carrying a quiet passion that drew me in. I remember the first time I told her I was an atheist, bracing myself for judgment, but it never came. Instead, she smiled, her eyes filled with understanding rather than condemnation.Later, she explained it to me in her poetic, mesmerizing way."Every painting needs a painter," she began softly, her voice carrying a wisdom that felt ancient and eternal. "The world is like an empty canvas—vast, hollow, and meaningless—until someone paints upon it. Without an artist, it would remain nothing more than a soulless container."I leaned in, captivated, as she paused. Her gaze wandered, distant yet brimming with profundity."To be created, there must be a Creator," she continued, her words resonating deeply. "And my Creator is Allah. When my Lord says, *'Be, and it is,'* creation unfolds effortlessly, as if His words weave the very fabric of existence."Her conviction painted vivid images in my mind—vibrant strokes of faith on a previously blank canvas."In Arabic, it is 'Kun faya kun,'" she added, her tone tender yet firm.Her eyes softened as she turned to me. "Humans, Aubrey," she said gently, "are born fragile. We stumble, we falter, and we sin—it's written into our nature. But in a world where hope dims with every passing day, there is Allah. My Creator—shy, merciful, and infinitely compassionate—reminds me not to fear, for He is always with me. Watching over me. Hearing my silent prayers."She paused again as if lost in a cherished memory. Then, her voice became steadier, carrying a sense of inherited wisdom."My father used to tell me," she said, her lips curving into a wistful smile, "that if Allah chooses to protect you, no force in this vast universe can harm you. But if He wills otherwise, then no power—no matter how great—can save you."Her words lingered in the crisp air between us, like a melody that resonated in the chambers of my heart.She continued, her voice taking on a quiet reverence, each word imbued with a sacred weight. "When we raise our hands in prayer, Aubrey," she said, her tone almost a whisper, "and we ask with sincerity, with pure intentions and hearts free of malice, Allah becomes too shy to let us leave empty-handed. Every prayer is answered—sometimes in ways we don't yet recognize, and always at the best time."Her eyes shimmered, reflecting the light of her unwavering faith. "Praying," she said, "is not just a ritual. It's a deeply intimate moment. In those precious instances, Allah draws closer to us than even our own souls. He hears the pleas we can barely voice, wrapping us in His mercy and love."Her words painted not just a picture, but an entire universe—a divine connection so profound that it felt as though heaven itself had stepped closer to earth."A penny for your thoughts?" Kais's voice broke the quiet, drawing my attention. I turned to see him stepping onto the terrace, his long coat fluttering lightly in the cold New York breeze. Behind him, Michael followed, hands shoved deep into his pockets, his face calm but unreadable as always."You still do this?" Michael asked, his eyes narrowing slightly at the unlit cigarette between my fingers.I exhaled, more out of habit than necessity. "Old habits die hard." I hadn't smoked in ages, but the cravings still crept in sometimes. Holding a cigarette—even an unlit one—felt like a strange kind of comfort.Michael extended a hand. "If you're not going to use it, hand it over."I barely had time to react before Kais darted forward, plucking the cigarette from my fingers with a quickness that caught me off guard. "Absolutely not," he declared, his tone sharp as he tossed it over the edge of the terrace. His breath fogged in the air as he turned to Michael, incredulous. "Do you even hear yourself? Passive smoking is just as bad as the real thing!"Michael raised a brow, almost amused. "I wasn't going to light it either."Kais scoffed, folding his arms as he gave us both a withering look. "You two are ridiculous. I'm saving you from yourselves, so... you're welcome.""So, what's the plan, my sweet brother-in-law?" I teased, leaning closer to Michael with a playful grin. He instinctively leaned back, giving me a wary look. "What exciting adventures await us tonight?"Michael sighed, his hands still tucked in his pockets. "Well, we can't smoke, drink, or party. So... I guess we sleep?""Don't be such a bore, Morais," Kais interjected, shaking his head with exaggerated disappointment. "There are plenty of ways to have fun that don't involve any of that."I smirked, raising an eyebrow as I tilted my head, my curiosity piqued. "Oh really? Do enlighten us, Kais. What's your grand plan for tonight?"Michael shot him a sideways glance. "This should be good," he murmured, his voice tinged with dry humour.Before converting to Islam, Michael and I would have spent the night drinking ourselves silly or partying until sunrise. But now, those days were behind us—or so we claimed. Kais, ever the optimist, seemed determined to find a "halal" way to keep the night interesting."Just wait," Kais said with a smug grin, rubbing his hands together like he'd just concocted the world's best scheme. "I've got a few ideas up my sleeve. You'll thank me later."Michael raised an eyebrow, his skepticism almost palpable. "This better not involve board games."Kais laughed, throwing an arm around both of us. "Trust me, you'll love it. Or at least pretend to.""We're going to bike race. The winner gets to ask the losers for anything," Kais announced, a sly grin spreading across his face.Michael and I exchanged glances, our expressions shifting from skepticism to amusement. Eventually, a smirk tugged at both our lips."Anything?" Michael asked, his voice low and deliberate, the glint in his eyes betraying his interest."Anything," Kais confirmed with a firm nod.Michael crossed his arms, raising a brow. "And the catch?"Kais's grin widened as he leaned closer. "We race to the Manhattan Bridge and cross it. No rules. We can get violent, use money, power, or whatever means necessary to win."Ah, now it made sense. This wasn't just a game—it was a way for Kais to channel his simmering need for chaos. For Michael and me, it was an excuse to get the adrenaline pumping.Michael tilted his head slightly, the corner of his mouth curling into a mischievous smile. "So... sabotage is fair game?""Fair game," Kais replied, practically beaming.I couldn't help but laugh. "You're insane, but fine. I'm in."Michael's eyes sparkled with whatever wicked scheme he was already cooking up. "Same. Let's see what you're made of, Kais.""Perfect," Kais said, clapping his hands together. "Get ready, because I'm not holding back."Michael and I exchanged one more look, the unspoken challenge between us loud and clear. This was going to be a night to remember—or regret.