It was Silas who asked first.
Late one evening, after the firewood had dimmed and the air had stilled around them like breathless silence, he sat beside Aaliyah on the floor, legs folded awkwardly beneath him.
"Show me," he whispered. "Please. Show me how you talk to Him."
Aaliyah turned to him, her fingers wrapped loosely around her prayer beads. The flicker of lantern light played over her features, softening the heaviness in her eyes.
"You don't have to be perfect," she said.
Silas gave a broken chuckle. "Then I'm already ready."
She reached for his hands.
"Let's start small. Just with wudhu — the washing. It's not about cleaning dirt. It's about intention. About touching yourself with care before you stand before God."
Silas listened, wide-eyed, as she guided him to the sink. She showed him how to cup water in his hands and let it run down his arms, over his face, to his feet.
He was awkward. Gentle. Reverent.
When they returned to the rug, she stood in front of him and showed him how to stand. Where to place his hands. What to whisper.
And then… she prayed.
Silas didn't understand the Arabic. But he watched her. Watched how her lips trembled when she said Allahu Akbar. Watched how her eyes closed in peace for the first time in months. Watched how she looked like light kneeling in shadow.
He tried to follow.
It wasn't perfect. His hands fumbled. He almost fell during sujood. But Aaliyah laughed — not mocking, but delighted.
"You're learning," she said.
Lucien watched from the hallway. Silent. Still.
That night, as Aaliyah lay between them, she whispered, "You can try tomorrow."
Lucien grunted softly. "I don't think God wants someone like me kneeling before Him."
"That's where you're wrong," she murmured, her fingers brushing his jaw. "That's where He wants you most."
He said nothing. But the next morning, she woke to find him already at the sink, sleeves rolled up, eyes squinting at her notes on the wall.
"I don't want to mess it up," he said.
"You won't," she whispered.
And he didn't.
He kneeled beside her. He trembled during sujood. He choked on the words. But he stayed.
And for the first time in years, Lucien Vale asked for forgiveness without demanding punishment.
That night, the cabin felt warmer. Safer.
Aaliyah watched her two monsters — once drowning in darkness — begin to find the light. Not because they were no longer broken.
But because they were finally willing to be healed.
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