Fatima

Each night, as the world outside quieted into stillness, Fatima found peace in her sacred routine. Seated on her prayer rug, the Quran rested gently in her hands as she recited verses from Surat Al Imran. Her voice, soft yet steady, filled her modest room with tranquility—loud enough to be heard within the walls, but not beyond the window shutters. It was in these moments, wrapped in divine words, that she never felt truly alone, no matter how empty the house seemed.

Just as she reached the final ayat, a sudden knock shattered the serenity. It was loud—urgent. Unusual. Fatima wasn’t expecting anyone, least of all at this late hour. The knocks came again, more frantic this time, followed by a desperate voice calling out.

“Sitt Fatima! Help me!”

Startled, she carefully leaned on her nightstand and pushed herself up. With her cane in one hand and a lantern in the other, she made her way through the dimly lit hallway toward the front door.

From behind the door, her voice rang out, firm but kind. “Who are you, my dear? What is wrong?”

“It’s me—Sara Midhat. I’m your new neighbor,” came the trembling reply. “My son… he’s very sick. I don’t know what to do. Please, help us!”

Without hesitation, Fatima opened the door. Standing there in the moonlight was a young woman, holding a feverish child in her arms. His cheeks were flushed, his small body limp.

“Bring him in,” Fatima said.

Sara gently laid her son down on the thick sitting cushion in the living room. The child whimpered weakly, sweat glistening on his forehead. Fatima knelt beside him, placing a cool hand on his brow. The heat of his fever was alarming.

Through choked words, Sara explained, “His name is Youssef. The fever started yesterday evening. I’ve tried everything, but it’s only gotten worse. We just arrived this morning from Luxor… I don’t know anyone here.”

Fatima nodded with quiet understanding. She disappeared into the kitchen and quickly returned with a glass jar of golden honey, another of pickled garlic, and a cup of clear water. She then brought a richly embroidered quilt. She moved with purpose, her hands steady with experience. 

She pressed a spoon of garlic juice to Youssef’s lips, dabbed the honey gently on his dry mouth, then covered him snugly with the quilt. Sitting beside him, she cradled the cup of water in her hands and began reciting Surat Al-Fatiha, her voice low and steady. One recitation after another—forty in total—until the final word echoed into silence.

Then, with reverence, she sprinkled the blessed water over the boy.

Throughout it all, Sara clutched her son's tiny hand, her tears falling silently onto his skin.

Fatima placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Do not worry, my daughter,” she said gently. “Allah is merciful.”

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