Prologue:

Zayan's heart was pounding wildly. A few beads of sweat were glistening on his forehead. He stood outside the small house, unable to muster the courage to knock on the door. He didn't know why, but a strange fear gripped his heart. He didn't even know what he was afraid of.

On the other side of the door was the woman who had haunted his dreams for so long. And just a few days ago, he had learned that she was not a dream, but a reality. She was a part of his life. She was his wife. The mother of his child.

Zayan didn't know how to face her after so many years. What would he say to her? Why hadn't he come all this time? And even more importantly, he still didn't remember anything about her. He had only thought of her as a dream until now.

And Muntaha...was she still waiting for him? Or...Zayan couldn't think beyond that.

Maybe that was why he couldn't even muster the courage to knock on the door.

She was his wife, but he didn't remember her. Despite that, she held a special place in his heart. Even though he had forgotten her, he didn't want Muntaha to forget him. A strange desire was growing in his heart that she would still be waiting for him.

With great courage, he knocked on the door. He felt like his heart was about to burst.

The door opened.

Prologue ends.....

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"You... you are looking very pretty," he found himself saying as he looked at her. A shy smile crossed her lips upon hearing his words. "Really?" she responded, her fingers gently clutching her long loose dress and she twirled.Captivated by her beauty, his heart began to beat faster, a sensation he hadn't experienced before . Almost instinctively, he reached out and held her hand, noticing the color of henna that adorned her fingers. Their eyes met, and the smile on her face faded, replaced by a look of concern. "What happened? Are you okay? Zayan? Zayan?" she asked anxiously.

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... ...

As dawn began to paint the city with soft hues of rose and gold, the smart blinds in Zayan's bedroom automatically adjusted, revealing the breathtaking panorama. Yet, sleep had eluded him.  He woke up abruptly. Sweat glistened on his skin. The unsettling dream still clung to him like a shroud. Gasping for air, he sat up, pulling off the luxurious cashmere blanket. The sleek digital clock on the nightstand glowed with a haunting 3:00 AM. The memory of the dream felt raw, the recurring presence of the unidentified girl gnawing at him like an unsolved puzzle. He pushed himself to his feet, the plush charcoal linen of the platform bed cool against his skin. With a heavy sigh, he walked towards the expansive window, his bare feet silent on the cool concrete floor. He opened the window, welcoming the cool morning air. His bangs danced along the air.  The sky had become a  vast canvas of the twilight stars.

He was extremely confused.  The girl... who is she? He wasn't seeing her once, twice, or thrice. He had seen her in so many of his dreams that he had forgotten the countings. At first, he'd thought that this was a dream but now, he felt there was something more to this. Otherwise, why would he see her so many times? He rubbed his forehead. He couldn't understand what he should do. He kept looking at the glittering sky. At that moment, he remembered a hadith of the  Prophet (peace and blessings of Allaah be upon him), which says:  The Lord descends every night to the lowest heaven when one-third of the night remains and says: 'Who will call upon Me, that I may answer Him? Who will ask of Me, that I may give him? Who will seek My forgiveness, that I may forgive him?

He glided toward the adjacent washroom, his bare feet barely brushing the cool concrete floor.

Inside, the dim glow of a bedside lamp cast an ethereal hue on the marble surfaces. With practiced ease, Zayan moved between the basins, his actions imbued with the familiar rhythm of daily ablutions. He cupped his hands in the cool water, whispering  Bismillah(In the name of God) .Then, he rinsed his mouth and nose. He splashed some water in his face cleansing away the residue of sleep and dream. Each subsequent act followed in an unhurried dance – washing his arms to the elbows, wiping his head with damp fingers, running the water along his ears and feet. Every touch was deliberate, a mindful offering to the Divine. His wudu complete, Zayan returned to the bedroom, the silence now a comforting embrace. He unfurled the prayer rug, its soft pile yielding beneath his feet. Stepping onto its woven expanse, he felt the world shrink, the cityscape vanishing into the periphery. Now, there was only the hushed intimacy of the night and the rhythmic thrum of his own heart.

He stood facing the qibla, his posture a pillar of quiet defiance against the shadows. Raising his hands to his ears, he breathed life into the first takbir, the Arabic syllables rolling off his tongue like a whispered secret. In that moment, the marble walls receded, the sleek furnishings faded away, and Zayan found himself kneeling on sun-warmed sand beneath an infinite desert sky. The prayer unfolded, a graceful choreography of bowing and prostration, a dialogue between his soul and the unseen yet immanent presence. His voice, usually strong and commanding in boardrooms, now rose and fell in soft murmurs, carrying verses of praise and supplication on the wings of the night. The city lights shimmered faintly, twinkling like distant stars mirroring his own silent plea for guidance, for answers to the enigmatic girl woven into his dreams. With each rakat, the tension uncoiled from his shoulders, the unsettling memory of the dream yielding to the soothing rhythm of worship. The cool air caressed his skin, carrying the faint scent of sandalwood incense and freshly cut grass from the distant lawn. The night, once a restless prison, transformed into a sanctuary, the darkness cradling him in its quiet embrace. Finally, he sat back on his heels, head bowed in silent supplication. The words of dua – personal whispers to the One who hears all – spilled from his lips. In the quiet stillness, a litany of hopes and vulnerabilities exposed. When he lifted his head, a sense of peace had settled within him, like a dewdrop clinging to a spider's web, fragile yet resilient. The city lights still blinked outside, but within the cocoon of his bedroom, Zayan had found solace in the embrace of faith. The unanswered questions remained, the mystery of the dream girl still a knot in his mind. Yet, as he rose from the prayer rug, a flicker of hope danced in his eyes. For in the quiet communion of tahajuud, he had found strength, clarity, and the unwavering belief that even in the darkest hour, dawn would always come.

... ...

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"Dude, that girl comes in every one of my dreams. I didn't pay much attention to her before. But now... now that girl is all over my mind," Zayan said in a troubled voice. Abrar shook his head thoughtfully and said, "I think a genie has possessed you." He laughed out loud and sat down on a bench. The two of them were jogging in the morning. Zayan, who was looking at Abrar with serious eyes, had sweat beads on his forehead. "I'm telling you my troubles, and you're finding it funny," Zayan said with a hint of anger, and then he also sat down on the bench. 

 "Your problem is not a problem. It's a simple matter, get married. That's why you're seeing a girl in your dreams." Abrar lightly mentioned.

"Marriage?" Zayan said in surprise.

"And what else? Maybe the time has come in your life when you have to make your decision," Abrar said, exercising his hands. Zayan shook his head, "Am I a teenager that I'll have such dreams?"

"No, in reality, it's just your age catching up. We're not exactly spring chickens anymore, you know. Remember Nathan? The dude's already changing diapers!

Zayan scoffed, "Don't compare me to Nathan, marriage isn't some competition. It is useless talking to you." Then he got up and started walking.Abrar followed him and asked, "What is your problem? Are you hesitant about marriage?"

Zayan didn't reply. Abrar took a deep breathe ,"I get it, marriage is a big decision . But come on, even Aunty's getting anxious. Namira told me she brought up Samaira again. "Zayan ran a hand through his hair, the gesture betraying the tension he was trying to hide. "It's not that simple, Abrar!"

Abrar studied him for a moment and then said, "Why?" 

Abrar watched, waiting for Zayan to turn back, to offer some explanation, some glimpse into the storm brewing behind his eyes. But Zayan remained silent, lost in his own internal labyrinth

"Don't tell me that dream girl messing with your head?"

Zayan avoided his gaze. "I... I don't know," he said.   Abrar placed his hand on Zayan's shoulder. "Dreams are dreams, Zayan. They're figments of our imagination, not reality."  "I know. But... she feels so real."  "Maybe she represents something you're yearning for. Something deeper than fast cars and board meetings. Maybe it's time to stop running and face what your heart truly desires." Zayan fell into silence, deep in contemplation..

Abrar nudged Zayan playfully and chirped, "Don't worry, buddy. Whatever it is, we'll figure it out together. Now, how about we pick up the pace? I'm starting to feel rusty."Zayan cracked a smile. "You and your rusty bones. Let's go."They resumed jogging, a sense of newfound understanding hanging in the air. The dream girl remained a mystery. A mystery that Zayan desperately wanted to solve.

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Zayan's laughter intertwined with the clinking of glasses and the lively hum of the restaurant. He was engrossed in conversation with Marco when his gaze, like moths drawn to a flame, darted beyond the window.Marco's question pierced the bubble of Zayan's preoccupation. "Lost in the sauce, Zayan? That faraway look is back."Shaking his head, Zayan masked his thoughts with a smile. "Nah, just thinking."He attempted to dismiss the feeling, but once again, something outside the window caught his attention.

Zayan froze, his body tensing like a bowstring pulled taut. "Wait... there!"He shot up, eyes fixed on something outside the window, a focal point invisible to his companions. Their confused stares followed his gaze but found nothing."What is it, man?" Abrar chuckled. "Did you spot a five-star steak walking by?"

Ignoring them, Zayan's eyes burned with desperate hope. "I have to..."He shoved back his chair, the loud clatter silencing the table's chatter. Heads turned, eyes widening at the sudden outburst. Zayan was already on his feet, pushing past the stunned waiters, a whirlwind of purpose on a mission only he could see. The frantic rhythm of his movements echoed as he burst out of the restaurant. The night air was a stark contrast to the warm glow left behind. The city's sounds sharpened, amplifying the tension as he weaved through the crowd, oblivious to startled shouts and bumped shoulders.

"Zayan!" Marco's voice chased after him, tinged with concern and bewilderment. "Where are you going?"But Zayan's answer, barely a whisper, was lost in the wind, "Somewhere I need to be!"He reached the street's end, the asphalt stretching infinitely before him. However, the girl, the figure his eyes craved, was nowhere to be seen. Disappointment washed over him, a wave crashing against the jagged rocks of his hope. He stood alone, lost and confused, the echo of his friend's voice a phantom in the city's hum.  "What was I thinking?" he muttered, shoulders slumping in defeat. Turning back to the restaurant, the warmth of the lights mocked his empty pursuit. His friends gathered around him, faces etched with a mix of worry and concern. Abrar placed a hand on his shoulder, his voice tentative.

 "Dude, seriously, what's going on? We're starting to think you're sleepwalking.  

"Zayan looked up, eyes haunted by a strange blend of longing and frustration. 

"I am not feeling well. I want to go home," he said, his voice hoarse. 

His friends exchanged worried glances. Zayan left. The Mercedes emerges from the neon labyrinth, the open road stretching before it like a blank canvas. He shook his head, the weight of his unspoken question hanging heavy in the air. Am I chasing a phantom or something more? The answer, like the girl in his dreams, remained tantalizingly out of reach. Zayan grips the steering wheel, his jaw clenched. "I can't live like this," he declares, his voice echoing in the hushed cabin. A vow, a commitment to unraveling the mystery.

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Hello readers!

This is an exciting moment as the story that has been swirling in my mind for so long finally begins its journey into the world. The first chapter is here, and I would love to know what you think.

Did the story hook you? Are you intrigued by the characters? Are you wondering what mysteries will unfold?

Don't be shy, leave a comment and share your thoughts! I would love to hear your feedback, suggestions, and anything that caught your attention.

Thank you for reading, and I hope you join me on this journey!

Sincerely,

Farzana Tutul

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The wind whispered through Zayan's hair, the Lamborghini Aventador's powerful engine composing a symphony that faded into the background as he pulled into the driveway of his childhood home. Palm trees swayed gently in the breeze, casting dappled shadows on the sun-drenched facade. Stepping out of the car, he took a deep breath, the scent of jasmine and freshly cut grass replacing the metallic tang of exhaust fumes.Inside, the house was a haven of cool tranquility. 

Sunlight streamed through the large picture windows, illuminating the plush couches and antique Persian rugs. His mother, Zahra, sat in the garden, a steaming cup of tea in her hand. Her eyes, the same shade of warm brown as his, crinkled at the corners as she smiled up at him.

"Zayan," she said, her voice as melodic as the wind chimes tinkling in the breeze. "It's so good to see you."He knelt and kissed her forehead, the gesture as familiar as the scent of her jasmine perfume. "Wa alaykum assalam, Mama," he replied, using the traditional Arabic greeting. "I'm sorry I haven't been around much lately."

"I know, son," she said, her eyes filled with understanding. "But you're busy, building your empire."Zayan chuckled, his voice somewhat ironic. "Empire is a bit strong, wouldn't you say?"Zahara sipped her tea. "Perhaps. But you have achieved so much, Zayan. More than most people ever could dream of."

He sat down opposite her, the weight of her words settling on him like a comforting blanket. He had achieved so much, yet he felt an emptiness inside, a hollowness that no amount of material possessions could fill."Alhamdulillah, I just gave efforts, and Allah made it successful, Mama," he said, his voice filled with gratitude towards the Almighty.

Feroza's gaze softened. "Indeed."They sat in silence for a moment, the only sound the chirping of birds and the gentle clinking of their teacups. Then, Zahra spoke again." I wanted to talk to you about Samaira," she said, sipping her cup. Zayan sighed. Samaira is the beautiful, accomplished daughter of his father's friend. She was everything a society wife should be: elegant, sophisticated, and of good background. But despite their shared cultural background and her seemingly ideal qualities, Zayan couldn't shake the feeling that something was missing.

"What about her?" he asked, his voice carefully neutral."Her family has approached me," Zahra said. "They want to know your answer."Zayan took a deep breath. He knew this conversation was coming, but it didn't make it any easier."Mama," he began, choosing his words carefully. "Samaira is a wonderful girl. Kind, intelligent, beautiful. But..." he hesitated, searching for the right way to express himself. "I don't think we're right for each other."Zahara's eyebrows furrowed slightly. "Why not?"

"I don't see a future with her, not the kind of future I want."Zahara studied him for a moment, her silence heavy with unspoken questions."Are you sure, son?" she paused and pushed back her spectacles. Taking another sip, she calmly said, "Samaira comes from a respectable family. She's well-educated and has all the qualities one could desire in a life partner."Zayan, looking into his mother's eyes, held his ground with sincerity. "I understand, Mom, and I respect Samaira and her family. But I feel a connection is vital, a shared vision for the future. I'm seeking someone with whom I can build a life that aligns with my values."

"Zayan, my son, I understand you want someone homely and modest, but consider this carefully. Samaira is a rare gem—a blend of grace, intelligence, and a family with an impeccable reputation. You might not find someone like her again." Zayan, maintaining his composure, listened attentively. Firoza's tone took on a more persuasive note. "Samaira's qualities are not easy to come by. Her family values align seamlessly with ours, and together, you both could build a stable and harmonious life. Think about the reputation you'll uphold in society."Zayan acknowledged his mother's words with a nod, his gaze fixed on the tea leaves swirling in his cup. The fragrance of blooming flowers mingled with the underlying tension in the air. Firoza leaned in, her voice dropping to a confidential whisper, "Zayan, my love, you have been blessed with everything one could desire. Samaira is not just a suitable choice but an opportunity for a blissful life. Consider the respect she can bring to our family."

"Mom, I appreciate your perspective, but I can't envision a future with Samaira. She's not my type," Zayan declared, taking a deliberate sip of his tea as if punctuating the conversation. After finishing his tea, Zayan stood up. He leaned in, placing a gentle kiss on Firoza's forehead. "Thank you for understanding, Mom," he said, his expression sincere. Firoza bid him farewell with a smile, but as Zayan left, her countenance subtly shifted, revealing a shadow of concern that lingered beneath her facade.

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The air in the mall was thick with the cloying scent of perfume. Zayan wove through the crowd, his brow furrowed in concentration. He was here for his friend's wedding and headed towards a perfume shop. However, his gaze was suddenly drawn, almost magnetically, to the Indian store tucked away in a corner of the bustling Sydney mall. The shop beckoned with its colorful displays—a splash of vibrant colors amidst the chrome and glass.He was drawn in, captivated by the tinkling symphony of glass bangles cascading down their display stand. Each delicate ring held a secret melody, waiting to be strummed by a slender wrist. He picked up a few, the cool glass sending shivers down his palm. The memory flickered – her dream form adorned in bangles that chimed like wind chimes in a monsoon breeze. He closed his eyes. The image was as vivid as ever, a constant companion in his slumber, yet frustratingly elusive in his waking life.He imagined them on her wrists, the gentle clinking a melody only he could hear. His heart ached with a longing he couldn't explain.Zayan approached the nearby salesman, his gaze fixed on the delicate glass bangles. "Pack them," he instructed, the urgency evident in his voice. The salesman, attuned to the request, nodded silently, reaching for the colorful array of bangles that had captivated Zayan's attention.Then he made his way to the counter to make payment. He bought the bangles, the box cool and heavy in his hand. Outside, the mall's vibrant energy felt suffocating. He retreated to his car, the box a silent monument to his obsession. Anger, sharp and bitter, rose in his throat."I'm losing it," he muttered, slamming the box onto the passenger seat. His knuckles turned white as he gripped the steering wheel. He was a man of reason, a businessman who navigated the world with logic and control. Yet, this dream, this girl, was unraveling him, weaving threads of fantasy into the fabric of his reality. But was it just fantasy? He closed his eyes, the bangles' soft clinking echoing in his mind. The memory wasn't just visual; it was a tapestry of emotions – the way her laughter made his heart soar, the warmth of her hand in his. He ran his hand through his hair.Was she real? Was she out there, somewhere, searching for him too? Or was he chasing a phantom, a figment of his lonely heart? The box on the seat mocked him, a symbol of his confusion, his desperate hope.

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Zayan completed his Salat al-Maghrib and approached Imam Yusuf, an elderly man whose face radiated kindness and whose eyes held a lifetime of wisdom."Assalamu alaykum, Imam. May Allah bless your day.""Wa alaikum assalam wa rahmatullahi wa barakatuhu, Zayan. You seem troubled. Is something on your mind?" the Imam asked, his warm smile tinged with concern.Hesitating, Zayan took a seat on the worn carpet beside the Imam."I've been having recurring dreams, Imam. The same girl, every night. It feels... real," he confessed while absentmindedly fiddling with the ring on his fingers, his gaze fixed ahead as if lost in the dreams.Imam Yusuf listened attentively. 'Dreams can be Rahmani (from Allah), nafsani (psychological, emanating from within), or shaytani (influenced by Shaytan),' he explained. 'How do you feel about these dreams?

Closing his eyes, Zayan recalled the mix of emotions: yearning, frustration, a sense of something missing."It's like... I have lived these moments. It feels like I know her very well.""Perhaps your heart seeks a connection, Zayan. A reflection of your yearning for love, for wholeness. Why not consider marriage?""Marriage?""Yes, marriage. Pray to Allah for clarity, consult with your family, and perhaps, consider seeking a suitable wife within the community. Sometimes, the most beautiful paths are not always the most obvious."A flicker of hope rekindled in Zayan's eyes as he nodded, thanking the Imam. Rising, the weight of the conversation settled on his shoulders."Thank you, Imam. I will keep your words in mind," he assured."Go in peace, Zayan. May Allah guide you towards the light, both in your dreams and your waking life.""Inshallah, Imam."As Zayan walked away, he couldn't help but ask himself, "Are you just a dream? An illusion ." The image of the dream girl lingered in his mind, accompanied by a new resolve: to seek guidance, to tread carefully, and to trust that Allah would lead him towards the path he truly needed, whether paved with dreams or reality.

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The cold tile bit into Zayan's forehead as he prostrated himself, the pre-dawn stillness of the mosque amplifying the quiet thrum of his heart. He was in the midst of Tahajud, the night prayer, a time for intimate communion with the divine. Each breath was a slow, deliberate offering, carrying with it the weight of a yearning that gnawed at his soul."Ya Allah," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion, "everyone is asking me to get married. My family, my friends, everyone I know. And a part of me, the rational part, knows they're right. It's time. But..." he hesitated, his voice catching in his throat.He choked back a sob, the image of her flooding his mind. The girl from his dreams, ethereal and luminous, with eyes that held galaxies and a smile that warmed him from within. A figment of his imagination, they said. A trick of his lonely heart. But how could something so real, so alive, be unreal?"I don't know who she is, where she exists, or if she's even real, yet I search for a glimpse of her everywhere," he confessed, his voice raw with longing. "Every proposal that comes, every arranged meeting, I search for her reflection. But it's always a mirage, shimmering just out of reach."A choked sob escapes his lips. "Ya Allah," he pleads, his voice raw with vulnerability, "I know my heart is not in my control, but You are the Master of all hearts. If this is a phantom I chase, a mirage in the desert, then please, remove her from my soul. Let me find solace in the reality You have ordained."But then, a different plea emerges, fueled by a flicker of hope. "But if, Ya Karim, if she is real, if this yearning is a seed You have planted in my heart, then I beg of You, make her a part of my life. Guide me towards her, bring our paths together, for You have the power to weave destinies beyond our wildest dreams."Silence descends once more, heavy with the weight of his dua. Zayan remained in prostration. "I leave my heart in Your hands, Ya Allah. Lead me to where I am meant to be, whether it be solitude or the embrace of a love I can only dream of."As he rose from his prostration, the first rays of dawn peeked through the window, casting long shadows that danced across the mosque floor. After completing his salah, Zayan felt different, lighter somehow. The path ahead was uncertain, but he was no longer alone. He had entrusted his desires, his dreams, to the One who knew them best. And in that quiet dawn, with a heart both aching and hopeful, Zayan awaited his answer.

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The sterile hum of air conditioning filled the plush hotel conference room, a stark contrast to the vibrant cityscape visible through the expansive windows. Zayan, having just secured a lucrative deal, leaned back in his chair, a satisfied sigh escaping his lips. The weight of negotiations lifted, and he allowed himself a moment of quiet contemplation, savoring the success.

Suddenly, a warm greeting shattered the stillness. "Assalamu alaikum," a voice boomed, jolting Zayan from his reverie.  "Aren't you Brother Zayan?"Zayan lifted his gaze, removing his goggles, and responded warmly, "Walaikumus salaam." He squinted slightly, trying to place the face before him. "I apologize, but I can't seem to recall where we've met."The man chuckled, his eyes gleaming with understanding. "Ah, it's understandable. We've only crossed paths once—during your wedding, to be precise. I can hardly blame you for forgetting a fleeting encounter. But how could I ever forget someone as influential as you?"

Zayan's brow furrowed, a shadow of confusion passing over his features. 

"My wedding?" he murmured, more to himself than anyone else. Unperturbed, Abbas continued, his voice tinged with nostalgia, "Yes, indeed. After attending your wedding, I moved to Australia for my studies. Time flew by, and I never got the chance to visit Bangladesh and reconnect. Are you residing here now? And is Muntaha Apa with you? Please convey my salam to her; tell her that Maliha truly yearns for her companionship."Zayan blinked, a sense of bewilderment settling in. "I think there's been a misunderstanding," he said slowly, choosing his words with care. "I am not married, and I don't know anyone named Muntaha."Abbas stared at him, a mixture of disbelief and amusement dancing in his eyes. "Brother Zayan, are you jesting with me?" he chuckled, thinking it a playful tease."No, I'm serious," Zayan replied earnestly, his expression sincere. "You must have mistaken me for someone else. I am not married, nor do I know a Muntaha."

"Why are you playing such a cruel joke, Brother Zayan?" Abbas asked, his voice tinged with concern."Look here, mister," Zayan retorted his tone hardening, "I'm telling you clearly that I don't know you, nor do I know anyone named Muntaha. And I assure you, I am not married."His words cut through the air, sharp and unsettling, a strange unease tightening Zayan's throat. "Could it be that you and Muntaha have gotten a divorce?" Abbas ventured cautiously, his eyes searching Zayan's face."What kind of joke is this? If this is some prank, you should know that I can take legal action for wasting my time," Zayan snapped back, his patience wearing thin. Zayan's stern demeanor caused Abbas to sober up instantly. The surrounding onlookers, too, cast curious glances their way, sensing the gravity of the situation.

"Brother Zayan, if you don't wish to speak to me, just say so, and I'll leave. But please, for the sake of Allah, don't tell such a massive lie. I attended your wedding myself. I even have pictures from that day," Abbas said earnestly, his voice tinged with a mix of confusion and concern. Without waiting for a response, Abbas swiftly pulled out his phone, navigated to his gallery, and opened a photo taken four years ago. He turned the screen toward Zayan, displaying an image that caused Zayan's eyes to widen in astonishment. It was undeniably him—dressed in a wedding sherwani, surrounded by numerous men, looking visibly elated. The Qazi was seated beside him, overseeing the signing of the marriage contract."Will you still claim that you're not married? Or that you don't know Muntaha?" Abbas asked softly, his voice filled with genuine regret. "This is your wedding day. The evidence is right here."Zayan stared at the image, his mind racing, grappling with the shocking revelation. The weight of Abbas's words hung heavy in the air.

"6 years ago, you got married to Muntaha Islam. I don't know why you're denying it," Abbas continued. But Zayan's mind was stuck on the name, Muntaha Islam, which tasted quite unfamiliar on his tongue. However, deep inside, a voice echoed in his mind, "Moon."Zayan whispered, "Moon," and his heart skipped a beat.

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Greetings readers!As we conclude this section of the story, I want to share some reflections and a little secret. First and foremost, I acknowledge a small error in the previous chapter: before wudu, Muslims recite "Bismillah," not "A'udhu billahi min ash-shaytanir rajim." I apologize and appreciate the attentive readers.Zayan is caught in a whirlwind of emotions and memories from the past. The story unfolds with a palpable mystery, a trick of his mind or a higher force?Regardless of the path the story takes, Zayan won't be alone. He'll be accompanied by prayers, doubts, hope, and perhaps, the love he longs for.I invite you to reflect on your lives. Have you ever felt your dreams brushing against reality? Have you sought answers in unexpected places?Your thoughts are welcome. Enjoy the journey!With warm regards,

Farzana Tutul

Zayan sat across from Firoza in the opulent living room of their Sydney mansion, the air thick with the weight of concealed truths. Disbelief painted his features, a simmering hurt lurking beneath the surface of his usually composed demeanor. "How could you hide such a significant matter from me, Mom?" His voice held a wounded edge, seeking answers, craving understanding. Firoza sighed, her gaze meeting his with a mixture of regret and empathy. "There was no need to burden you with the truth, my child. What could I have told you? At a time when your mental well-being was fragile, we arranged your marriage with a girl... a girl who was motivated by more than just your personal charm, shall we say." The room felt suffocating, despite the expansive windows and designer furniture. The weight of her words hung heavy in the air, even heavier than the crystal chandelier suspended above them. Zayan stared at her, his disbelief morphing into a slow burn of anger and betrayal. 

"Greedy? Questionable character?" The words tasted bitter on his tongue, clashing with the image of the loving wife he'd glimpsed in his dreams."Yes," Firoza continued, her voice thick with regret, "we provided a dowry that would make most heads spin. We even ensured her sister's education was fully funded. At the time, you needed a caretaker, someone who would provide constant companionship and support. Marriage seemed like the best option, given your... unique circumstances. And Muntaha..." Firoza paused, a flicker of guilt clouding her eyes. "She seemed so innocent, so pure. But appearances can be deceiving, can't they? She wasn't a good woman, Zayan. She only married you for your wealth, for the access to a lifestyle she craved. And when her attempts to manipulate you failed, she even..." Firoza's voice dropped to a whisper, "she even went to the extent of harming you."

"Where is she now?" Zayan choked out, the question hanging heavy in the air, laced with a cocktail of emotions - anger, confusion, and a strange flicker of longing.Firoza's gaze dropped, a tremor of guilt flickering in her eyes. 

"She... she ran away when we discovered her true intentions," she mumbled, her voice barely a whisper. "And then we came back to Australia. When you recovered completely, you forgot her completely. So, we thought it's better not to mention her and move on."

The room turned quiet, the only sound the rhythmic tick of the grandfather clock. Each tick echoed in Zayan's ears, a stark counterpoint to the turmoil within him. He couldn't reconcile the woman in his dreams with the monster his mother described."Son, you shouldn't think about her," Firoza said, her voice softer now, almost pleading. "This was all in the past. A bitter past that shouldn't be remembered. And, you are lucky that you have forgotten her."Zayan nodded, but he couldn't tell her the truth. How the day before, he had knelt in prayer, his forehead pressed against the tiles, begging Allah to bring the woman in his dreams to life. Now, knowing she was real, knowing she was Muntaha, a woman capable of such darkness, filled him with a chilling dread. He forced a smile, his voice hollow. "Yes, Mom, you're right. She is just a past." He could almost hear the echo of his own words, a mantra he desperately wanted to believe.

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... ...

Despair gnawed at Zayan's heart, mirroring the bruised violet and fiery orange hues bleeding across the Little Bay sunset. Usually, a haven of serenity, the gentle lapping of waves now sounded like taunting whispers, each crest a reminder of the truth that had shattered his world. He stood barefoot on the damp sand, the coolness seeping into his soul, unable to numb the ache within him. Muntaha. The woman who haunted his dreams, the warmth in her phantom touch, the love in her imagined eyes – all a carefully crafted lie. A viper he'd unknowingly held close, her venom coursing through his memories, poisoning the well of his trust. His gaze fell upon the vast expanse of the sea, the endless blue mirroring the hollowness within him. 

"Why do you keep coming in my dreams, Muntaha Islam?" he choked out, his voice ragged with despair. "Why don't you leave me alone?" The waves crashed against the shore in a relentless reply, offering no solace, no answers. He remembered the warmth of her embrace, the whisper of her name on his lips, the echo of laughter that now rang hollow in his ears. How could he have been so blind? So easily manipulated? The betrayal gnawed at him, leaving behind a gaping wound that pulsed with raw pain.

" So, Allah's decision has arrived," he murmured, his voice barely audible above the ocean's sigh. "You are just a phantom that I chase. A mirage in a desert. Nothing else." A dry sob escaped his lips, lost in the symphony of the sea. He sank onto the sand, the dampness seeping through his clothes, mirroring the tears he refused to shed. The weight of his shattered reality pressed down on him, threatening to consume him whole. Yet, amidst the crushing despair, a flicker of defiance sparked within him. He wouldn't be broken. He wouldn't let the lies and deception define him. His eyes fell on the small, velvet box lying beside him. Inside, nestled on a bed of satin, lay a delicate set of glass bangles. A gift he'd brought by impulse.

He picked up the box, his fingers tracing the intricate design. Her delicate hands filled with glass bangles flashed in front of his eyes, forcing his heart to beat faster.

But, he had already made a decision. He would move on from a phantom. After all, dreams are bound to shatter. At first, he thought he'd throw it into the sea. But then, he stopped. He stared at the box, with a finality that mirrored the setting sun, he placed the box back on the sand.

... ...

As the last sliver of the sun dipped below the horizon, plunging the world into twilight, Zayan rose to his feet. The sea breeze tousled his hair, carrying away the whispers of the past. He turned his back on the retreating waves, his gaze fixed on the sparkling stars of the night sky.He took his phone and dialed Feroza's number."Assalamu alaikum, Mom," he greeted, his voice firm despite the tremor within. "I'm ready to marry Samaira. Tell her family."He hung up and walked away, leaving the box on the sand, its contents hidden. The waves, his silent witnesses, rolled closer, whispering secrets as they nudged the box towards the water's edge. He didn't look back.

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Sunlight streams through the expansive windows of Zayan's opulent office, illuminating the plush furniture and mahogany desk. Zayan, impeccably dressed, sits behind the desk, reviewing documents with focused concentration.

... ...

The door bursts open, and Ibrahim storms in, his face flushed with anger. He throws a crumpled cheque on the desk, the paper bouncing with a dull thud."Explain this, brother!" Ibrahim shouted. Zayan raised his eyebrows, unfazed by his brother's outburst. He calmly sets down his pen and gestures to the chair opposite him. But his brother remained standing, pacing agitatedly."I apologize, Ibrahim. Did you inquire with the bank about the reason?" Zayan said, his voice calm like an ocean."Don't play dumb with me! You know exactly why. That investment I told you about... the one you so generously 'advised' against." Ibrahim scoffed. Zayan sighed, a flicker of disappointment crossing his features."Ibrahim, you know I wouldn't interfere unnecessarily. The project had several red flags, and I simply voiced my concerns."

"Oh, so now you're the financial oracle?" Every word dripping sarcasm."Remember when you were... insane? Who kept this empire afloat? Who made sound investments and grew our wealth?" Ibrahim asked. A bitter smile displayed on his lips. Zayan winced at the reminder of his recent illness and memory loss. He stood up, placing a hand on his brother's shoulder. He said, "Ibrahim, I appreciate everything you did during that time. But I'm back now, and I have a responsibility to make sure our investments are sound. That particular project just wasn't a good fit for our portfolio."Ibrahim pulled away, his anger simmering."This isn't about the project, Zayan. This is about control. You're questioning my judgment, doubting my abilities. Frankly, it's insulting."

"It's not about that! You are getting me wrong." Zayan's tone became stiff. "I trust your business acumen, Ibrahim. But this was a calculated decision, not a personal attack."Ibrahim shook his head. "I don't need your protection, Zayan. I can manage my investments."He turned towards the door, his voice laced with bitterness. "Consider this a formal request. Don't meddle in my affairs anymore."He exited the office, leaving Zayan standing alone, a mix of emotions swirling within him. He sighed, running a hand through his hair. Perhaps I handled it wrong. But protecting our family's assets is my duty too. He murmured to himself and returned to his desk, picking up a pen. The decision might have caused friction, but Zayan stood by it. He knew the importance of making informed choices, even if they sometimes create conflict. The future of their empire depended on it. And, he couldn't let Ibrahim's immature decision ruin it.

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The house creaked and groaned under the onslaught of the thunderstorm. Rain lashed against the windows, and the wind howled like a wounded animal. Fear, primal and raw, jolted Zayan awake. He scrambled onto the bed, his eyes wide and searching, the room unfamiliar. Suddenly, warm arms engulfed him. Muntaha's familiar scent of strawberry filled his senses, a fleeting balm to the terror gripping him. He burrowed into her embrace, her voice a soft melody against the storm's roar."It's okay, Zayan," she whispered, her voice laced with concern. "It's just a storm. See, everything is fine."Another thunderclap boomed, closer this time, and Zayan flinched, clutching her tighter. His eyes, the stormy gray of a monsoon sky, darted around the dimly lit room, searching for an anchor in the chaos."Don't leave me, Moon," he pleaded his voice barely a whisper. 

"Please don't."

"I'm not going anywhere, Zayan," she promised, stroking his hair gently. "Inshallah, I will always be with you."

Present:

Zayan woke with a start, the storm a distant memory. He sat up, disoriented, he sat up in the plush leather chair. The memory of the storm, the comfort of Muntaha's embrace, felt strangely real, yet hazy and incomplete. Her face flashed in his mind. But it was like a dream, beautiful yet elusive. "Are these dreams a lie?" he whispered to himself, his voice thick with confusion. "Is my mind deceiving me?" Anxiety gnawed at him.  He closed his eyes, trying to recapture the fragments, but they slipped through his fingers like grains of sand. He yearned to understand, to piece together the fractured fragments of his past. But the storm had left him with only echoes, whispers of a life he couldn't remember.

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