Chapter Six: Where Healing Lives

It wasn't dramatic, her healing. There was no one moment of victory, no cinematic ending. Just quiet mornings where Mira woke and didn't feel like crying. Just evenings when she could focus on her pharmacology notes without a lump forming in her throat.

She kept her Qur'an beside her textbooks now. Her heart beat a little steadier when she whispered, "Hasbi Allahu wa ni'mal wakeel." Her conversations with Allah were no longer only during the nights of sorrow — they became part of her rhythm, woven between lectures, labs, and lonely walks.

Her classmates noticed. Not in the way people usually notice change — no gossip this time. Just glances. Warm smiles. Invitations to study. Slowly, kindly, people saw Mira again. Not the broken version. Not the rumor. But Mira — the girl who always helped others, who prayed for the hurting, who showed up even when she herself was empty.

One afternoon, she found herself at the hospital again. This time, as a caregiver. An elderly woman needed counseling for medication adherence. Mira knelt beside her with such softness that the attending nurse whispered, "You've got a gift, dear. They listen to you like you're family."

Mira smiled.

She had learned to speak from a place of pain — but also peace.

She knew the cost of being unseen. And she vowed to never let another soul feel that way if she could help it.

That was her closure.

Not revenge. Not validation.

Just becoming the woman she once needed — and finally being able to hold herself with grace.