CHAPTER 1: HELL AND MEMORIES

The bus hissed to a stop, its brakes wheezing like an old man in sujood. Jamal stepped down slowly, his leather sandals splashing into a puddle left by the recent downpour. The evening air still carried the scent of wet earth, that unmistakable Nur Afiya musk; damp, tea-stained, and faintly smoky from the street vendors folding up their grills.

He paused beneath the new signboard at the entrance of the town:

"Welcome to Nur Afiya - Land of Fertility and Wisdom."

It was carved now, elegant and official, replacing the rusted metal slab that used to swing half-detached on windy days. The sidewalk was lined with interlocking bricks, children in clean white uniforms darting across, holding Qur'an class slates and giggling like they had secrets from the world.

He stood still for a beat too long, the wind teasing the hem of his kaftan. Seven years. Seven whole years since he slipped out like a thief in the night, without a goodbye. Fawas had begged him to stay then. But how could he? With shame clamped to his chest like an iron gate, and that memory like a burning scar only he and the guilty knew.

Nur Afiya had changed.

Madrasas now stood where sand lots once were. Streetlights blinked steadily overhead. Cafés with WiFi signs sprouted near the main square, and the dusty paths had been stoned over with gravel - not quite tarmac, but definitely progress.

But some things... remained.

The air was still heavy with petrichor, earth-scented steam rising from the cracked pavement like incense. Nur Afiya wasn't asleep yet, but it was yawning, shops closing, laughter trailing off, adhan lingering in echoes between concrete walls. The rain had scattered the streets, left puddles wide as shame, and brought down that strange silence only old towns know.

Jamal walked like a shadow.

Nur Afiya shimmered under a wet cloak of moonlight. The lamplight poured gold across slick stone paths, puddles whispering beneath his sandals. Even at night, the streets were busy with life: boys selling sim sim snacks in worn baskets, a group of elders playing cards near the masjid fence, women laughing as they emptied buckets onto verandas, rinsing off the long day.

It felt like a dream, a surreal painting of what once was. But everything had shifted.

He dodged a motorbike, cutting across a lane just as mist rose again from the gutters.

The earlier rainfall had softened the air.

A quiet mercy.

Jamal thanked Allah silently.

The rain had spared him the burden of many eyes. Most people had rushed indoors. He'd hoped for that. He needed it.

Even the shortcut he'd taken, the one that would've led him straight past her house, was now blocked off by fresh construction.

"Alhamdulillah," he had whispered, genuinely relieved.

It meant he wouldn't have to pass Almeida's house.

That cursed corner.

That door.

That street.

The place where everything had gone wrong.

So he turned away.

Taking the longer path, winding through the outer roads.

But fate...

Fate doesn't take bribes. Does it? You wouldn't know.

About seventy meters into the street, he paused to adjust his travel bag.

His shoulder throbbed. The weight wasn't what he remembered.

He straightened.

Lifted his head.

And then suddenly he froze.

Across the road, behind the faint blue glow of a tired old sign that read "Al-Afiya Chemist,"

sat a woman.

On a White plastic chair.

Slender frame.

Dark-skinned.

Posture straight. Regal, even in her stillness.

She looked... familiar.

Maybe a nurse.

Maybe not.

His chest tightened. His breath turned shallow. His heart stirred.

Because his soul knew better.

But no, his chest knew better. His breath began to stir.

It wasn't Almeida; he wasn't really sure.

But it looked more like her mother.

The one who used to make him rice with suya spice when his mother had passed.

Hasn't she aged a day...? Or was his eyes deceiving him?

His throat tightened.

"Am I being haunted by everything in my life now?" He muttered beneath his breath.

He wanted to look away, but his gaze was caught.

It wasn't her presence that hit Jamal like a slap now.

It was the tasbih sliding through her fingers.

That tasbih.

He recognizes it, it used to be his.

Dark wood color with one silver bead in the middle. The inscription was familiar, he's never seen such anywhere else. The same one that had once circled his neck like a noose and lifeline both. He's sure of it, he could see it clearly from beneath the florescent bulb. His mom had bought that tasbih from one Ramadan Eid when he was like 13.

The same one Almeida had unclipped with sly fingers.

He had worn it on his neck the night he came to their house; innocent, hungry, naive, just like always. That night when... just before she. Before they...

His stomach flipped.

"Ya Rahman..."

And memory opened like floodgates.

____

***Almeida's House. Seven Years Ago.***

He shouldn't have stayed that late.

But it was just movie night, something they'd done a hundred times since their teens. Familiar. Harmless. That was the mistake.

The room was dim, lit only by the flicker of a foreign film. Something slow, all jazz and glances. Jamal sipped his tea, posture stiff, eyes anywhere but the screen. The movie tonight hits quite different.

"You always this shy with girls, Jamal?" Almeida purred, curled beside him on the couch.

He chuckled lightly. "Nope" he protested "Just not used to movies with more kissing than Qur'an recitations."

Jamila, perched on the armrest, burst into laughter. "Waa Allah! You've always been mad holy."

A flicker crossed Almeida's face; hurt, maybe. Or challenge. He couldn't tell.

He shifted closer to the corner, putting space where there had been none. But he noticed things now. The way her scarf had slipped revealing the soft line of her neck. Her fingers, still sticky from sugared dates, had lingered on his hand when passing the tea. And that hoodie and tight short. Too casual. But she was home. Who was he to question?

Jamila smirked. Like she saw something.

"You always do that," she said.

"Do what?"

"That turtle move. One flirt and you're halfway into your shell."

"What flirt?" he deflected, sipping his tea again. "You're imagining things."

"Mmhmm," Almeida mumbled, eyes on her phone. "He knows. They always do. Especially the 'pious' ones."

"Don't lump me in your drama," Jamal had said, half-grinning.

Thirty minutes later, Almeida shifted again. This time, Her elbow brushing behind his. Then, deliberate, slow. Her fingers caressed the back of his hand.

He froze.

"Almeida," he said sharply, pulling away.

"Sorry," she whispered. "I forgot myself."

"Try to remember," he replied, voice tight, "before I start forgetting who I am."

That drew Jamila's glance. "Wallahi, you two are a halal soap opera."

Mariyah Almeida's elder sis, chuckled from the armchair. "Let them flirt."

"This isn't flirting," Jamal retorted. "It's... Mhhhmpph.. " Clears his throat.

"What...? Temptation?" Mariyah teased. "Or your secret fantasy?"

"Okay! Okay! Both of you," He murmured, raising his hands in surrender "whatever you take it to be. Just let me be."

She leaned forward, eyes playful. "Sometimes the table's set by God Himself."

"You sound like Shaitan with a PhD."

"Better than a prophet who thinks women are poison."

He exhaled. "SubhanAllah. That's not even what I..."

Almeida rested her chin on her palm, voice soft "Why are you so afraid of being loved? Or is it just us you fear?"

He didn't answer.

"We're not strangers, Jamal," Mariyah had added. "You're like a brother to us."

"Exactly," Jamila echoed. "So why act like we're strangers just because we're women?"

He looked at them one after another, faces glowing from the dim blue light provided by the movie playing in the background; beautiful, familiar, dangerous.

They're all strikingly attractive.

"Because sometimes it's those closest to you," he said finally, "that destroy you without even meaning to."

The silence that followed was quiet, but it settled like smoke.

Later, they'd laugh again. Talked gossip. Pretended the conversation never happened.

But the taste of that touch... remained with Jamal.

And so did the ache it opened.

The movie had dragged on, another thirty minutes of tangled limbs and whispery romance. The kind that made Jamal shift uncomfortably, his eyes fixed anywhere but the screen, before finally coming to an end.

He hadn't meant to fall asleep that day.

But...

After the teasing, the offhand flirtations, the way his skin buzzed with something sour and restless, he'd sunk deeper into the couch. The cushions had memorized his weight. The girls had gone upstairs, fetching dinner, maybe, or more trouble.

He didn't know. Didn't ask.

The room was quiet now. Still.

Just him.

And the shadows.

And the low thud of his heart in his ears.

The stale scent of buttered popcorn still hung in the air like a haze.

He hadn't planned to sleep.

Just rest his eyes.

Settle the storm inside his chest.

Wait for their mother to return. Eat. Offer salams. Leave.

That was the plan.

But the nap had came without permission.

And it didn't last long.

---

What happened next still stiffened his spine.

Something cold.

Slim.

Moving.

Inside his pants.

Jamal's eyes flew open, and for a breathless second, the world held its breath with him.

His body froze, still as stone, heat flooding his neck like shame, terror, and disbelief all at once.

Her eyes met his.

Steady.

Unapologetic.

Jamal opened his mouth, to speak, to scream, to beg, to ask why...

But no words came.

No prayer strong enough to lift that moment from his skin.

____

That night had been the last night he ever spent in Nur Afiya.

Who could've guessed that a man's journey could shatter so violently at the hands of those he called family?

Not strangers.

Not enemies.

But girls he trusted. Girls who called him brother.

He had never told anyone the full story.

Not even Fawas.

What happened that night had buried itself deep,

shared only between his memory, and those who had crossed the line with him.

It was the kind of night that bends reality.

The kind that starts like something sacred…

and ends like something stolen.

A night that gave him the most tender, most disarming conversation of his life,

and then, in the same breath,

ruined something in him.

Or maybe… realigned it.

He still wasn't sure.

Was it destruction?

Or divine redirection?

He had carried it like a scar, one only the soul could see.

And tonight, walking through Nur Afiya's shadows,

he could feel it pulsing again like a bruise someone whispered against.

____

A shriek of laughter snapped him back to the present.

Streetlight. Cold night air.

The scent of wet sand and roasted maize.

His breath came shallow. His palms, clenched tight, tingled with heat.

He exhaled, slow and long, and loosened his fingers.

Shook the ghost off.

He had no idea how long he'd been standing there, eyes fixed, soul turned inward like a man stuck between lifetimes.

"That's the past," he muttered under his breath.

"It doesn't define me right?"

He looked back to the spot where the woman had been sitting.

Now Empty.

Had she moved while he was drifting?

Or maybe... maybe there had been no one there at all.

No Almeida. No mother.

Just memory wearing someone else's skin.

Either way, the damage was done.

Memory had done its work.

So had fate.

_______.

The streets thinned as Jamal continued in his track.

Vendors had packed up.

Children vanished.

Nur Afiya slipped into its softer hour, lights dimmed, voices hushed, shadows stretching long and familiar. A breeze whispered through the emptiness: You're still here?

He moved quietly.

The road curved toward the GRA phase: neatly fenced houses, bougainvillea spilling over walls, welcome mats gathering dust. Here, silence didn't hum like the market or sing like the mosque rows.

It watched.

He adjusted his travel bag, the ache in his shoulder pulsing. But the weight wasn't cloth or books.

It was this street.

This quarter.

This house.

Fawas' house.

Once, his most dreaded place in Nur Afiya.

Never because of Fawas

Fawas was sunlight wrapped in ease. Warm. Loyal. Jamal's brother in everything but blood, the friend who stayed when worlds collapsed.

But the man who owned that house?

Fawas' father.

A name spoken only when necessary. A presence that pressed down on rooms even in absence. Wealth? Unimaginable. Power? Undisputed. The source? Unspoken.

Whispers goes around saying, some shady contracts, others charms. Also saved by judges who ruled from fear, not bribes

The iron gate. The tinted windows. The silence thick as threat.

Jamal's spine remembered before his mind did.

He didn't fear being turned away. Fawas would never allow it.

But stepping inside meant stepping into the shadow of a man who once made families tremble. A man who could still ruin him without blinking.

Almeida's house? A cursed door. Closed. His uncle's home? Lost to death two years prior.

This was his only choice.

He'd prayed before stepping off the bus:

Let the man be away. Asleep. Or perhaps changed.

But prayers aren't guarantees, are they?. And Nur Afiya never forgets it's ghosts. It waits for them to return.

What haunted him now wasn't guilt.

It was purpose. Clarity.

A tether around his ribs, pulling him toward answers.

He recalled Ustaz Hamid's voice in the carpentry shop, years ago:

"Unease lies the head that wears the crown."

Jamal had laughed then. Too poetic for a woodcutter.

But tonight? Truth pressed down like stone.

"There's so much to do with hate, Jamal," Ustaz had said, "but so much more with love. Choose what you build with."

Was he building? Or watching himself collapse?

Clarity mattered more than comfort now.

He rounded the bend. Two turns from Fawas' gate.

He wasn't just dodging Almeida's past.

He was threading through something deeper now.

Like Nur Afiya itself had eyes.

And maybe it did.

Maybe every sacred town watches those marked by it.

It no longer felt like a return.

It felt like he was walking toward something unfinished.

A silence.

A question.

A reckoning.

And the mystery that brought him back... waited still in the dark ahead.