Six feet unde
Wherever she goes, I pray she finds me there, waiting for her. Someone must have crafted her with an abundance of love and care, because I doubt the world could ever offer me another soul with such grace, mischief, and light.
My life was once a kite — tethered, secure, predictable. Then she entered it — not to hold the string, but to cut it. To set me free.
She was always in awe of life's simplest things. A child's laughter, the smell of rain, a stray cat curling at her feet — they all lit her up like the dawn. Her smile captivated me from the moment I met her. Even when she stood face-to-face with death, she smiled as though she were finally going home.
She sacrificed her life to save mine. She cared for me that much.And on the night I lost her, I felt the same flames that took her away devour me from the inside.
Our love was like sand in an hourglass — each grain slipping faster than we could hold. She was my sunrise and my moonlight, her face the very shape of peace.
May the angels sing her praises far louder than I ever could.May the Lord grant her a paradise as beautiful as her soul.
The Adhan echoed through the stillness — the sound of devotion slicing through my memories.
I've grown used to waking alone. But every dawn feels like a rebirth — the world washed clean, the silence between the verses heavy with remembrance.
When I stand before the mirror, I see not just myself — I see us. Her reflection lingers in the corners of mine, like a ghost of light refusing to fade.
When the heavens called her, she ascended with the grace of an angel returning to its maker. And here I remain — earthbound, stubbornly mortal — trying to honour her in every breath, every prayer.
"Live for me," she once whispered.
Those words haunt me like a benediction."I can't change your heart, Aubrey," she had said, her hand against my chest, "only the Lord can guide it."
Her voice was a blade wrapped in silk — soft, but it cut deep.Though she has gone, she left a light within me, one that refuses to die.
I keep her close. Her scent still clings to my pillows. Her toothbrush still rests by the sink. Her shoes still stand by the door, waiting. Every object whispers her name. Every corner remembers her laughter.
We dreamed of summers, autumns, and springs — but we only lived through one winter.And when she left, I wasn't cold.I was burning.
It was 5:40 a.m.The world still slept, save for those who prayed.
Five times a day, I knock on the door of Allah — and each time, He answers. When every other door closed, His remained open.
It wasn't my eyes that had been blind; it was my heart.Ayah lifted the veil, and the Lord freed it.
Before I pray, I cleanse. Wudu. Cool water against skin, the ritual that returns me to purity. The prayer mat unfolds, soft beneath my hands, facing the Kaaba.
And when I bow, I remember her. Because when Ayah gifted me Islam, I could give her nothing in return but my submission — to her God, now my God.
When I finish, I sit by the window and watch the sun climb slowly across the frozen horizon.Its light spills across the rivers, rooftops, and glass towers — chasing away every shadow it touches.Even the places still in darkness will soon glow.That's mercy.
As the warmth brushed my face, it felt as though someone had descended from the heavens — or perhaps, as though God Himself was smiling upon the world.
Ayah was declared dead on December 3rd, 2003, at 8:00 p.m.
Elsewhere, a small café lost its brightest laugh.An old greengrocer missed the girl who used to wave every morning.Stray cats still wandered the alley, looking for the hands that once fed them.A florist kept aside a bouquet she'd never come to collect.
A father blamed himself.A sister lost her best friend.A brother regretted his last words.
Today marked Ayah's seventh death anniversary.
I saw paradise in her eyes once. And I still do.
It was time to visit her grave. My father's words from last night echoed faintly — "Expect a guest tomorrow." He hadn't said who. Only that I should be ready.
I opened my closet and reached for the white Panjabi Ayah had gifted me on my birthday. I wore it every Friday for Jummah. It still smelled faintly of her — rosewater and soap.
Downstairs, the quiet clatter of breakfast met my ears. Kennedy — Mrs. Flores — had already arrived. She'd been part of our home for twelve years, since before Ayah, since before Alex died. She raised us when my mother couldn't.
"Aubrey," she said softly as she placed the plate before me, "eat while it's warm."
Her voice carried the tenderness of someone who had watched me grow through grief.
I sat at the white marble table. Sunlight filtered through the curtains, painting gold across the vase of roses at its center. It looked like the life we once dreamed of — a home filled with warmth and laughter.
"If we have a boy," Ayah had said once, her head resting in my lap, "we'll name him Zair. And if it's a girl — Aiza."
I remember brushing her hair back, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "Whatever my queen desires."
As I ate — pancakes folded with scrambled eggs — I asked Kennedy why she had come so early. I'd told her to come at ten.
Her eyes glistened. "I wasn't there when she left," she whispered, "but I can at least make you breakfast — so you can deliver a message to her from me."
Every year, on Ayah's anniversary, Kennedy writes her a note. I carry it to the cemetery and read it aloud. She's never gone herself — says she couldn't bear to see Ayah's name etched in stone. Her tears would fall, but her voice wouldn't.
What did Ayah do to deserve such devotion?
Kennedy's life had once been torn apart — her husband ran away, taking everything, even her dignity. Her family turned on her. But Ayah wouldn't let the world swallow her. She found her a good man — a widower with a son — and gave her a second chance at life.
"Smile," Ayah had told her that day. "It's the best revenge against those who try to break you."
She even tracked down the man who had stolen Kennedy's savings. Half the money was gone, but Ayah recovered what remained and returned it herself.
Ayah didn't just save lives; she restored them.
When I finished breakfast, I pocketed Kennedy's note — and another memory found me.
We were at that same wedding — Kennedy's wedding — years ago.Ayah's hand slipped into mine as we watched the ceremony unfold. Her head leaned softly against my shoulder.
"Ardel," she murmured, her eyes never leaving the bride, "never make a woman cry. Never."
I smiled faintly, teasing her. "Never? Not even by accident?"
She turned to me, her lips curving into that quiet, knowing smile that always disarmed me."Especially then," she said.
Her voice lowered, becoming almost a whisper. "In Islam, if a man is the cause of a woman's tears, the angels curse every step he takes."
The sunlight danced across her face — golden, almost divine."You sound so certain," I said.
"I am," she replied. "Because a woman's tears are sacred — they fall where love once lived."
I remember laughing softly. "And you think I'd never cause that?"
Her gaze lingered on me — tender, almost teasing. "No," she said simply. "You love too deeply to be cruel."
I didn't know how wrong she was. Love doesn't make a man gentle.It only teaches him how easily the gentle can break.
Even the key to paradise, she said, is held by a woman.
At the cemetery, I parked the car and picked up the bouquet of irises. The morning air was crisp, biting, but somehow merciful.
Each step toward her grave felt like walking through a dream — one where grief and peace coexist.
Her name carved into the marble gleamed under the sunlight. I knelt, brushing my fingers over the letters as though touching her skin again.
"I was blessed to have you," I whispered. "To call you mine."
The wind stirred, soft and playful — like her laughter echoing somewhere unseen.
"When I met you," I said quietly, "my heart took over, and my mind never caught up."
I placed the bouquet down. The sun rose higher, casting a golden glow across the cemetery, and for a moment, everything felt still — the world holding its breath.
"Until we meet again, my love," I whispered.
And as the warmth of the sun touched my face,I could almost swear I felt her hand against my cheek —gentle, fleeting,like the brush of heaven itself.