PROLOGUE.

He hadn't planned to come back.

Not really.

The return had been slow, silent, like a bruise you don't notice until it aches. Like rain that starts as a mist and turns your back cold before you realize you're drenched.

Now, here he was; seated on the edge of a sunken couch in Fawas's parlor. The ceiling fan hummed in lazy revolutions above, scattering shadows across the room. A muted football match flickered on the TV, casting blue-and-white light on the walls. Outside, the night pressed close against the louvre windows, thick with the scent of distant rain and hot dust.

Jamal barely watched the game. He hadn't even noticed who was playing.

He was tired, but not sleepy. Wired, but not present. Restless in a way only Nur Afiya could make him. Just barely an hour in, the ache from the road trip hasn't yet died down when his phone vibrated on the side table.

He looked.

Ustaz Hamid.

A rare warmth crept up his chest.

Peace. That man had always been peace.

Father. Mentor. The only person who had looked him in the eye when no one else could bear to. The one who had listened without judgment, helped him live when the weight of betrayal had nearly crushed him.

His fingers hovered over his phone.

He almost didn't pick. Not within the first hour of setting foot back in Nur Afiya. But the name pulled him.

"Peace be upon you, my son," came the familiar voice, warm as always, though heavy in tone.

Jamal leaned forward, still seated on the edge of the old couch. "And upon you be peace, Ustaz."

"Are you home now?" the Ustaz asked.

Jamal smiled faintly. "Yes, sir. Got in not long ago. How's everyone over there?"

"All good and happy, alhamdulillah. So, where are you staying?"

"Fawas's place."

Silence.

"I called you for something more trivial, Jamal," the Ustaz said. "I really need you to come back to Al-Mahrak. It's urgent."

Jamal blinked. "But I just got here. That's like thirteen hours you're asking me to travel again."

"I know, Jamal," the Ustaz said firmly. "But I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important."

A pause stretched across the distance.

"What happened?" Jamal asked.

The Ustaz sighed. Deeply. "She's back."

"Who?" Jamal quipped.

"Rofiya," came the quiet answer. "She returned this afternoon with a son… and she said he's yours."

Jamal straightened up, heart skipping.

"Mine? How?" He sounded more confused than defensive. "We never.. I mean.. I."

"That's what I want to understand too," the Ustaz replied calmly. Then added, "But the important part is; the boy's health is on the line, Jamal. And the father must be provided."

Jamal ran his tongue across his lower lip, unsure what part of this story he was supposed to respond to first.

A child.

His child?

With Rofiya?

But how...

"I don't know how it could be possible ," the Ustaz said gently, as if reading his storm of thoughts. "All we know is that the boy is in the hospital, he's not doing well, and this test might be his only shot. Whether you're the father or not... we need you here."