After arriving here, it was the first time she had ever seen a mosque. Her heart involuntarily drifted back to her homeland—where, five times a day, the call to prayer would echo across the air. At prayer time, every direction was filled with the sound of "Allahu Akbar", and the mosques would host congregational prayers in all their quiet, beautiful order.
Today, the same scene unfolded before her eyes. People were arriving…some performing ablution, some sitting on the carpet, lost in the remembrance of Allah.
But one thing, in particular, touched Zoya deeply: for women, a corner of the mosque had been fully arranged, allowing them to pray in peace and serenity.
It was a bit crowded today, for it was Friday, and many Muslim women had come for Jummah prayers. Alongside them were sweet little girls and boys—toddling around with small, uncertain steps. The children's heads were covered with lovely scarves, their innocent faces glowing with a strange, quiet light.
Zoya's eyes grew moist."I imagine you here… one day, you'll be here too, among such children, draped in a beautiful scarf. You'll run this way and that, and then, at the sound of Allahu Akbar, you'll prostrate before Allah with everyone. Your innocent prostrations, your soft, sincere hands, your prayers will be accepted instantly."
She whispered, almost to herself, "Then I will ask you quietly, pray for me too, because you will be Allah's precious golden gift."
The voice was hers alone, and the secret of it belonged only to her and Allah. She was certain that what Allah bestowed would come exactly as He willed.
Zoya remained at the entrance, watching the children. Her mind wandered to her mother's words: "When someone sees Mecca for the first time, the dua made at that moment is accepted."
She murmured silently: "My destiny has not yet brought me to Mecca…But this mosque is also your home, dear Allah. Here, everyone prostrates before You. Today, I, too, wish to offer a prayer."
She stepped inside, feeling the soft carpet beneath her feet, and in a gentle voice, began to pour her heart out to Allah.
She was not alone—Others, too, were quietly seeking Allah, some immersed in remembrance, others silently conversing with Him, just like she was.
The peacefulness of the mosque separated everyone from the outside world. It felt as if all were in another realm—a world where only serenity existed.
Closing her eyes, Zoya whispered her prayer:
اللَّهُمَّ اهْدِهِ وَاغْفِرْ لَهُ وَارْحَمْهُ وَاجْعَلِ الإِيمَانَ فِي قَلْبِهِ نُورًا وَهُدًى
Allāhumma ihdihi waghfir lahu warḥamhuwaj'alil-īmāna fī qalbihi nūran wa hudā.
"O Allah, guide him, forgive him, have mercy on him, and place the light of faith and guidance in his heart."
After her prayer, she remained silent, absorbing the stillness of the mosque. For a moment, it felt as if time itself had paused.
Before the Jummah prayer, the Imam began the sermon. He recited the ta'awwuz:
"أَعُوذُ بِاللَّهِ مِنَ الشَّيْطَانِ الرَّجِيمِ"
" I seek refuge in Allah from Satan, the accursed."
For an instant, even the air seemed to be still. Zoya felt that this was more than words—it was a plea for refuge from every inner turmoil, every doubt, every restlessness. She drew a deep breath and surrendered her heart to Allah.
Then the Imam's voice rose again:
"بِسْمِ اللّٰهِ الرَّحْمٰنِ الرَّحِيمِ"
"In the name of Allah, the Most Gracious, the Most Merciful."
For Zoya, this was not merely the start of a Surah—it was the start of intention itself. To invoke Allah before every act, to seek His permission before every word. It felt as though a new chapter of her life was opening, bathed in the light of Allah's name.
The Imam continued with the sermon, but Zoya remained suspended in that moment—her heart clear, her intention illuminated, her soul ready to listen to Allah.
She did not know which Surah he would recite first, but she silently hoped for Al-Fātiḥah, for it contained everything: praise, gratitude, supplication, guidance, serenity. Softly, she recited it in her heart, savoring each word's meaning.
When the Imam began aloud:
1 —"الْحَمْدُ لِلَّهِ رَبِّ الْعَالَمِينَ"
(Al-ḥamdu lillāhi Rabbil 'ālamīn)
Zoya glanced around. She was seated with other women, all bowing their heads, listening intently. For a moment, she felt a strange fear, but it was followed by a profound peace. She could not explain this sensation, but she knew:
"Allah, my One, my incomparable Allah, I acknowledge Your purity. You know the secrets of hearts, what we think. Indeed, you are capable of everything."
It was unsettling, yet comforting—a disturbance that carried its own blessing. She had only thought of Al-Fātiḥah, and the Imam had begun it aloud. And suddenly, she realized: Allah was hearing the thoughts of her heart.
Zoya remained in her bow, yet her heart had shifted—fear and serenity intertwined, and she felt a closeness to Allah she had never known before. 🤍
For the mostly local congregation, the Imam translated into Korean. Zoya closed her eyes, recalling the tafseer once taught by Haya—a girl who held a very special place in her heart, someone she would call her soulmate.
الْحَمْدُ لِلَّهِBy using this independent noun, Hamd, Allah makes His praise completely independent of any doer. His praise does not rely on anyone speaking it; it exists as a constant, eternal reality. The word Hamd carries both meanings at once:
praise — admiring perfection and excellence,
gratitude — thanking for a blessing or favor.
رَبِّ الْعَالَمِينَThis phrase establishes Allah as the true Master, Provider, Sustainer, and Nurturer of all worlds, encompassing every system of existence.
A wave of peace and awe washed over Zoya, as if every word had settled deep into her heart.
2 —الرَّحْمَٰنِ الرَّحِيمِ
(Ar‑Raḥmānir‑Raḥīm)As the Imam recited and explained it in Korean, Zoya tried to recall:"What tafseer had Haya shared about this verse? Why can't I remember it, when she explained it so deeply with so many examples?"
Then, suddenly, a click in her mind—she remembered the moment she had asked Haya:"Haya, if we look at it, both names of Allah seem to mean mercy. Ar‑Raḥmān is mercy, and Ar‑Raḥīm is also mercy. Why two names? Wouldn't one be enough?"
Haya had smiled gently at her question."Come, I'll explain it with an example," she had said.
They had been sitting on the grassy plot in front of their department, enjoying the weak winter sun. Students were scattered around, reading or chatting quietly. Haya leaned closer, so Zoya could hear her clearly.
"Imagine your son has gone to school. It's almost time for him to return. You've already planned in your mind: he will come home, I'll give him food, then help him with his homework. But he doesn't come home. You are waiting."
Haya looked at Zoya with a warm, respectful smile. "Now tell me, a little while ago, you were worried about his homework—what are you worried about now?"
"Obviously… now I'm worried about my son himself," Zoya answered without hesitation.
"And what will you pray to Allah for at that moment?" Haya asked gently.
"I will pray that he returns home safely," Zoya said.
"Now imagine," Haya continued, "you say: 'My Raḥmān Lord, please bring my son home safely,' and your prayer is accepted. Your son returns. That is my point."
Zoya listened intently, each word sinking into her heart.
"Zoya," Haya said softly, "this mercy that responded to your prayer immediately—that is the meaning of Ar‑Raḥmān: the One who shows mercy instantly, here and now. Whereas Ar‑Raḥīm means the One who shows mercy always—both in this world and the Hereafter. A Lord whose mercy never ceases."
"Do you understand now?" Haya asked, her voice gentle."Through Ar‑Raḥmān, Allah shows mercy in our immediate, day-to-day matters. And through Ar‑Raḥīm, His mercy has always been upon us—and will remain forever."
Zoya smiled and nodded softly.
As they lifted their heads, she noticed some students around them had been listening. They too were smiling now, as if, like Zoya, they had glimpsed the depth of Ar‑Raḥmān and Ar‑Raḥīm.
A quiet joy settled in Zoya's chest. The world—the sun, the grass, the gentle winter breeze—seemed brighter somehow. And the meaning of mercy, both immediate and eternal, had taken root firmly in her heart.
3 — "مَالِكِ يَوْمِ الدِّينِ""Master of the Day of Judgment, the One who oversees all deeds and intentions."
Zoya's heart fluttered, caught between awe and reassurance. She cast a glance around—heads bowed in submission, eyes lowered in reverence. The mosque's tall walls seemed to embrace her, and the soft murmur of water from the ablution area wrapped her in a sense of sacred protection.
Everything I think and do is seen by Him… yet I am not alone, she realized, a quiet warmth spreading through her chest.
The Imam's voice rose, calm yet commanding:
4 —"إِيَّاكَ نَعْبُدُ وَإِيَّاكَ نَسْتَعِينُ""You alone we worship, and You alone we ask for help," Zoya whispered silently.
The words resonated through the mosque, bouncing off the high ceilings. The Korean translation floated softly among the congregation, gentle and unobtrusive. She imagined placing every worry, every small hope, into Allah's care, and felt the quiet surrender that comes from total reliance.
The faint scent of incense, mingling with polished wood and golden sunlight streaming through the windows, created a cocoon of serenity around her.
5 —"اهْدِنَا الصِّرَاطَ الْمُسْتَقِيمَ""Guide us to the straight path,"
She thought, pressing her hands lightly together, kneeling on the soft carpet. Her heart lifted in a silent plea, a humble request for guidance.
The mosque seemed to pause with her: the soft rustle of hijabs, the gentle breathing of women nearby, the subtle echo of footsteps—all harmonized with her prayer.
A memory surfaced:
"Zoya, do you pray?" Haya had asked once.
Embarrassment had heated her cheeks. She expected judgment, fear, scolding. But Haya's reaction was gentle, surprisingly tender.
"It's okay, start praying now," Haya had said.
"I can't wake up early," Zoya confessed, lowering her gaze."I'm late; the prayer time ends. When I miss Fajr, I don't pray the rest either."
"It's okay," Haya smiled."When you wake up in the morning, pray then. One day it will be late, two days it will be late—but one day, you will pray Fajr on time."
"Won't Allah be angry if I pray late?" Zoya asked, surprise breaking through.
"No," Haya explained softly."Because you are in a state of effort. You are trying. You will try to wake up on time, and Allah looks at your intention and effort."
"Should I tell you about a verse?" Haya continued, eyes kind."It is Surah Al-Fātiḥah, verse five. We ask Allah to guide us to the straight path. Do you know what Ṣirāṭ is?"
Zoya shook her head.
"Ṣirāṭ is a very wide path," Haya said with a smile."On this path, it doesn't matter how many good deeds you have or how many sins you committed before. What matters is that you are walking on it. Just walking—moving forward—is a sign that Allah has chosen you."
"That is why," Haya concluded,"keep walking. Keep trying. Allah will guide you."
Zoya's fingers traced the carpet's intricate patterns. She remembered those words vividly. For three days, she had woken late, praying afterward. But on the fourth day, her eyes opened exactly at the time of the adhan.
After praying, she raised her hands for dua, tears spilling freely."Allah, Haya said when my eyes opened for Fajr, it means You have chosen me. Have you chosen me for that wide path—even for one who is still learning, still trying?"
6 — "صِرَاطَ الَّذِينَ أَنْعَمْتَ عَلَيْهِمْ""The path of those You have favored,"
Zoya repeated silently, envisioning the lives of those walking in Allah's light. She felt a deep yearning, a pull toward guidance.
Sunlight streamed in through the mosque windows, forming intricate patterns on the floor—light dancing in harmony with the sacred words. Every sound—the distant call to prayer, the soft padding of feet, whispered devotion—blended into a tapestry of awakening and reflection.
7 — "غَيْرِ الْمَغْضُوبِ عَلَيْهِمْ وَلَا الضَّالِّينَ""Not the path of those who earned Your anger, nor of those who go astray,"
She prayed inwardly, a subtle shiver running through her at the thought of straying.
Yet this same prayer filled her with hope, clarity, and a determination to seek Allah's light and mercy. Slowly, she opened her eyes. Sunlight touched her face. The woman beside her murmured, their devotion gentle and sincere.
Her lips curved into a faint, serene smile. Her heart felt lighter, her spirit more connected, and her soul profoundly at peace.
After the end of the sermon, everyone stood up for namaz. The congregation stood, row upon row, in quiet anticipation. Feet planted firmly on the carpet, bodies straight, shoulders relaxed but attentive. This was qiyām, the standing position of prayer, yet it was more than posture—it was a declaration of presence, a silent acknowledgment of the One before whom all are equal.
No one was higher, no one lower. Children, elders, men, women—each heart, each soul, stood side by side, all equal in front of Allah. The only greatness here belonged to Allah; the rows of humans were uniform, humble, and connected.
She pressed her own feet into the carpet, feeling the soft fibers beneath, grounding her. Her hands rested naturally at her sides as she inhaled the serene atmosphere. Standing there, she felt both small and secure, a single heartbeat among many, yet intimately seen.
Zoya's eyes wandered for a moment and landed on a tiny Korean girl in a crisp white scarf, shyly standing beside her. Perhaps her mother was just behind, unseen, letting the child experience the moment. The sight pulled at Zoya's heart. So small, so earnest… one day, you and I will stand here together in prayer, she thought softly, a tender warmth filling her chest.
The voice of the Imam rang out ''Allahu Akbar!''
The women folded their hands gently over their chests, right hand resting softly atop the left. In the rows ahead, the men folded theirs lower, at their abdomen, the difference subtle but natural. Every movement, every stance, reflected submission and order—not out of habit, but intention.
Then the Imam's voice rang out again: "Allāhu Akbar!"
The sound moved through the mosque like a wave. As one, the rows shifted into motion, bending forward into rukū', bodies aligned, hands pressing gently on knees. Zoya followed instinctively, feeling the weight of surrender, the quiet harmony of countless hearts bowing together.
Zoya's heart lifted with the realization: Here, everyone is equal. Only Allah is great. Only Allah is above. And in that equality, she felt a closeness she had never known, a profound connection flowing quietly into her soul.
They straightened up from rukū'. Zoya felt her back align, a calm filling her heart. Standing again, she felt lighter, like a little of her worry had stayed on the floor. The rows around her were quiet, everyone moving together, yet each alone in their connection with Allah.
Then came the first sujūd. She lowered herself slowly—knees, hands, forehead touching the carpet. The moment her forehead pressed down, Zoya felt closeness she couldn't describe. Everything else disappeared: the room, the people, even time. Her heart whispered, her body rested, and she felt utter humility and trust.
Sitting up briefly between the two prostrations, she rested on her heels, hands on her thighs, eyes soft. It was a pause to breathe, feel, and remember Allah.
Then she went into the second sujūd, forehead touching the carpet again. This time, it felt even deeper, like her heart was melting into the ground. She was aware of the small girl beside her, the rows around her, but the closeness she felt was between her and Allah alone.
When she finally lifted her head, she felt lighter, calmer, and somehow held. Every step—standing, bowing, prostrating—had left a quiet mark on her heart. She knew this peace wasn't about the words she said, but the presence she felt, right here, right now, in this moment.
After completing the prayer, Zoya lifted her hands, palms open, heart soft. The Imam's voice rose in Korean, guiding the congregation in dua. She didn't understand every word, but she felt the warmth of everyone's hearts reaching upward together.
She whispered Ameen with the others, then silently repeated her own dua—the one she always asked for: guidance, protection, love, and mercyfor him. A gentle warmth spread through her chest. She whispered Ameen again, then softly ran her hand over her face, feeling calm, seen, and connected.
In that quiet moment, Zoya realized: this was not just a prayer, but a conversation with Allah, and her heart had been heard.
The evening air was cool, calm, and comforting. Minji and Jeon.J were walking slowly through the garden, letting the soft breeze brush against their faces. The sky was painted in shades of gold as the sun began to sink.
"You're upset because of Bamson, aren't you?" Minji said gently. "I was going to bring him to you myself."
She paused, then continued, carefully choosing her words.
"But when we checked social media, there was no update. No post saying Bamson was missing. There wasn't even any update from you—just the last one saying you were out of the country for a concert. I already knew that, so I became more careful."
Minji kept explaining, trying to make him understand her side.
"We brought Bamson to the dorm safely, but taking him out again felt risky. I wasn't worried about myself—I could manage everything—but Hana, Ruhi, Sophia… and Zoya. I was worried about them."
Among all of them, Zoya had been the most frightened.
Jeon.J lifted an eyebrow.....Zoya?
"She kept saying we should inform the police."Again and again she said.
But when I saw Bamson after such a long time… I couldn't make myself let him go. I thought I'd keep him with me until you arrived. When you came back, I would hand him over to you myself."
She lowered her voice.
"I didn't know you were in Busan. If I had known, I would've brought Bamson to you right away."
Jeon.J stopped walking. He lifted his eyes toward the sky, where the evening sun was glowing softly.
"I came after hearing the news that Bamson was missing," he said quietly.
Then something struck him.
"Wait." He turned toward Minji, stepping closer, looking straight at her. "How did you know I was in Busan?"
Minji was just about to answer when Jinhun's voice interrupted them.
"If you two are done talking, then join us," Jinhun said, approaching them with a serious look. "Otherwise, we're leaving."
"Why?" Minji asked. "Did you get bored?"
"Not bored," Jinhun replied, dropping himself onto a nearby chair. "Just tired. What kind of friends do you have? For the past two hours, the three of them have taken endless videos and pictures with us. Even now, their phones are still full, and their hearts aren't satisfied. I'm not going back inside."
Then, as if remembering something, he looked up.
"Speaking of friends… where's that friend of yours? The one who went missing yesterday at DMC?"
At Jinhun's question, Jeon.J looked at Minji.
"Oh—Zoya," Minji said. "She went to the mosque."
Jinhun straightened up, confusion clear on his face.
"A mosque?" He blinked. "Oh… to explore? You didn't go with her? So you probably canceled today's plan because of us."He kept asking and answering himself.
Jeon.J stayed silent, waiting for Minji to speak.
"No," Minji said. "We'll go tomorrow, or maybe in a few days, to explore. But today she went for Friday prayer. Friday is a blessed day for her, that's why she went today."
She added calmly, "I told her to call me when she's ready to come back. I'll book her ride. She doesn't know the routes, and she doesn't understand the language either."
Jinhun stared at Minji, clearly confused. Then suddenly, his eyes widened in surprise.
"Wait… Zoya is Muslim?"
"Yes," Minji replied.
Oh .....she must have felt so bad. Yesterday, we drank in front of her. Jinhun spoke with a trace of shyness in his voice.
"But how will she call? Jinhun said anxiously. "Her phone was kept inside. When she was leaving, and we were coming in, she tried to put it into her bag in a hurry. It slipped from her hand and fell to the grass. She didn't even notice."
He paused, then added quietly, "But Jeon.J saw it."
The memory flashed clearly—Jeon.J bending down, picking up the phone, placing it carefully on the central table inside, without saying a word.
As Jinhun explained this to Minji, his eyes shifted toward Jeon. He shot him a sharp look—one that carried accusation and disbelief.
What exactly is going on in your mind?
Jeon.J understood the meaning instantly. He looked away, pretending to scan the garden, as if the plants or the trees suddenly demanded his attention.
Minji's expression darkened with worry.
"But now… how will she come back?" she whispered."She doesn't know anything."
She took a breath, deciding quickly."Wait here. I'll go get her. It's getting late—she'll start panicking."
"Where are you going?" Jeon.J asked.
"To the Central Mosque," Minji replied without hesitation."I'll check there. I'm sure she's still there. I'll bring her back."
"I'll come with you," Jinhun said at once.
"No," Jeon.J interrupted immediately, his voice firm."You go inside. Stay with Minji's friends. Make reels with them—don't hurt their feelings. I'll go with Minji."
Jinhun turned slowly, studying Jeon.J's face.
"What's really going on in your head?" he asked quietly."You saw Zoya there yesterday, too, didn't you? Yet you sent Minji and the others away with Jae."
"And today, her phone fell right in front of you. You didn't say a word. You picked it up. And now…"
He stopped mid-sentence, leaving the accusation hanging in the air ,His eyes locked onto Jeon.J's.
By then, Minji had already stepped outside and was seated in her car—The car she used whenever she came home during the holidays.
Jeon.J smirked faintly and leaned closer to Jinhun.
"Don't strain your brain so much, my old darling brother," he teased lightly.
Then he turned and walked out.
"I'll drive," Jeon.J said.
Minji slid into the front seat. As the engine started, she stared ahead, silently hoped—
That Zoya was still there.
To be continued...
Regards
ZK💌