**Endurance is born when determination walks hand in hand with surrender; the long-distance runner bends to the wind, yet never loses sight of the horizon.**
_____.
Jamal moved through the dim street, sandals whispering on wet interlocks. The air hung heavy: mango bark, rusted iron, the faint scent of a childhood drawer.
Fawas' space. The old mango tree still leaned towards the flickering streetlamp, casting its bent shadow. But the house? Repainted off-white with black trim. New, sleeker gate. No guards. No dogs. No rumbling engines. Just stillness. Too much stillness. Unguarded. Unthinkable for a place that once swallowed visitors whole. Fawas' father protected *everything*.
Yet tonight, the gates stood ajar. Forgotten? Forgiven?
Compound lights still worked, some habits are just die hard. No pressure now. No fear. Jamal stepped in like he belonged, not by entitlement, but by friendship.
The front door loomed. Above, a fluorescent bulb buzzed, pulsing light onto the wet stones. A black-and-grey cat, one white paw, curled on the steps. Its eyes glowed momentarily in the flicker. It raised its head as Jamal approached.
"Still here?" Jamal murmured, crouching to rub its head. A low purr, then indifference resumed. He straightened, knuckles lifted to knock.
The door slid open before contact. Quiet. Deliberate.
A woman stepped out. Thick-hipped. Confident. A sea-blue hijab slipping, silk cascading over her shoulder. Her walk was measured, like crossing a memorized minefield. She didn't look at him. Didn't greet. Didn't flinch. Head high, faint perfume, steps precise through ruins of prayer.
Jamal watched her dissolve into the dusk. "Still no change with Fawas, huh." He murmured to the air. "Even the wind returns with more humility."
A familiar voice floated from inside, low as twilight: "Make sure you call me once you get home."
Jamal lingered. The cat rubbed his ankle, tail forming a question mark. A faint smile touched his lips. He didn't raise his voice:
"Should I take the cat... trade it for silver at Pa Jalāl's?"
A beat. Silence.
Then a voice from within, confused, then amused:
"What... Wait... *Pa Jalāl?*"
Recognition struck like a dropped prayer bead.
A stool scraped. Bare feet slapped across tile. The door swung open.
And there stood Fawas.
Shirt half-tucked, eyes squinting through the porch light like a man confronting a ghost he'd buried but never mourned. His jaw slackened.
"No. *Way...*" he muttered, breathe cease.
"Yes way," Jamal murmured shaking his head in a playful manner, voice parched, eyes glinting with old, knowing mischief.
Fawas blinked hard, rubbing both eyes as if the motion might shatter the vision.
"*Wallahi*... Jamal," he breathed, stepping forward slowly, as if the space between them had grown fragile. "It's really you. How long? Five years? Four?"
Jamal stood motionless. Rain-kissed. Soul-burdened. Unreadable.
"Seven," he said finally. "Eight, if you count the years that didn't just pass... but, pressed"
Fawas exhaled, a sharp, ragged sound.
"I thought you vanished... Disappeared that night like a prayer too heavy to land."
Jamal's gaze held steady. "Some prayers don't land," he said softly. "They drift sideways. Crooked. And Allah sends wind, not wings. I just... followed the wind back."
Fawas laughed, a startled, boyish burst, like an ache long caged in his ribs finally breaking free.
"Still cryptic as ever, *wallahi*. Like some wandering Sufi trailing riddles and dust."
"Old times never die," Jamal said, closing the distance. "They sleep under the bed. Waiting for night to grow quiet enough to return." He opened his arms reaching for an embrace "How've you been brother?"
Their embrace was rough, wordless, the kind men share when silence holds more than memory ever could. Strength lived in it. Grief. A relief too deep for language.
Fawas pulled back, studying his friend as if time had distilled him into something purer, heavier.
"i've been great actually. Doing great. You look... weighted. Not in flesh. In soul," he murmured.
Jamal's lips curved faintly. "The world isn't weightless, brother. It tilts crooked with deeds and memories."
Fawas tilted his head, a teasing grin blooming. "Prophet Idris teach you that on pilgrimage?"
"*Tch.* Why assume I met a prophet?" Jamal's tone softened. "I just learned to listen. Listening is the root of knowing."
"Right, right." Fawas winked. "But tell me, you started collecting your thrifts yet?"
Jamal raised a brow. "Thrift? You mean?"
"Don't play righteous." Fawas's grin widened. "*Thrifts*. Foreplay. Dunya's blessed little gift." He raised two fingers in mock solemnity.
Jamal huffed a dry laugh.
"Ah. That harvest?" He shook his head. "Some master cultivation. Others? Still learning to water the soil." A pause. "I'm still learning."
Fawas clicked his tongue. "*Still* intact?" He clapped Jamal's shoulder. "Brother, sand's slipping through the hourglass. We ain't seedlings anymore."
Jamal shrugged. "Mmm. True. But maybe *you* should tend your own field and stop chasing every breeze in skirt or jilbab." His eyes held Fawas's. "Besides... something deeper than desire brought me back. Not your biased sexual sermon."
Fawas chuckled, eyes glinting. "Mystic mode activated. Don't worry, I still get you."
"Do you?" Jamal's voice roughened. "The world shouts. I had to relearn silence."
A moment hung, dense, quiet, the air thick with years unspoken.
Then Fawas stepped aside, swinging the door wide.
"Come on in, aboki, Before the cat reconsiders your offer."
Jamal smiled. Crossed the threshold.
Into warmth. Into memory. Into whatever current that had drawn him home.
As the door began to close, Jamal asked softly, eyes down:
"Your father... he still lives here?"
Fawas's hand froze on the handle.
"Not really." His voice flattened. "If he did... would you be at my door?" A beat. "We'll talk after you rest. Just come in." He nudged Jamal forward. "Good to have you home."
____.
Inside, the room embraced Jamal, soft warmth, incense clinging to corners like ancient prayers. Cold tiles had replaced the rug, but the same framed *ayat* still watched from the wall. Beside it, a faded portrait of Fawas' parents and their younger selves defied time. More lamps now. Fewer shadows. **Less fear.**
Jamal scanned the retouched familiarity. His bag thudded as he sank into the blue armchair.
He glanced at the door, then fixed Fawas with a sideways look.
"Home's Peaceful now. More Welcoming."
"Yeah, Right" Fawas' smile was a blade wrapped in silk. "None of this warmth would breathe if my father still haunted these walls."
"That woman earlier..." Jamal tilted his head toward the exit. "Wife? Or neighbor with... convenient timing?"
Fawas scratched his beard, eyes dancing.
"Aisha. Came for evening tilāwah." A beat. "The rain detained her."
Jamal's gaze sharpened. "*Tilāwah?*"
"Mm. Nothing serious." Fawas shrugged. "Yet."
"Seven years," Jamal sighed. "I hoped they'd season you. Instead, you're still running Qur'an classes for doe-eyed women 'caught in storms'."
Fawas laughed, adjusting his kaftan. "You make it sound haram! Want me to swear?" He raised his index finger.
"What'd she recite?" Jamal deadpanned. "*Surah al-Desire? Ayah 6:9?*"
Laughter erupted; rich, raw, exorcising old ghosts.
As it faded, Jamal's face hardened.
"Jokes aside Fawas. Stop chaining your spirit to every woman you share space with."
Fawas' brow lifted.
"It's not just flesh," Jamal pressed, voice low as embers. "Souls *exchange* energy. Every touch leaves residue. Lingers. *Layers.* Either Dark or white."
Fawas stroked his beard, silent.
"Too many ties?" Jamal leaned forward, elbows on knees. "Muddy the heart. Drown the whisper of Allah."
Silence thickened.
"You think this is foolish?" Jamal challenged after not getting a response. "Just dusty words from a ghost who lost touch? Hmmm?"
Fawas, halfway to the bar, paused. His smirk hung like a shield. He chuckled, rubbing his neck.
"*SubhanAllah*, Jamal... What do you want me do or say? Start gathering every thrift I've scattered?"
He lifted empty hands: What's broken stays broken. "But your sermon?" He reached for wine. "It's for the young male and female out there still growing. If you had told me this Ten years ago, Maybe, it would've helped. Now?" The cork hissed free. "I'm just swimming in the flood I made."
He filled two glasses, shot Jamal a teasing glare.
"And you? Never once drawn your sword, People would always think you like those fable-stallions, majestic. Yet untouched."
Jamal didn't smile.
"Word to the wise, Fawas. Tethering your soul to countless others? It fractures destiny. Weakens body and spirit." He shook his head, almost amused. "Horses sense shifting winds. You should notice what's hunting you."
Fawas raised his glass. "Then toast the hunt!"
"Your choice," Jamal conceded. "But don't spill generations into gutters. Who'll call me 'Uncle' then?"
Fawas barked a laugh, full-bodied, reckless. Happy for the mood shift. "Mister Biologist! When mine dries up, I'm tapping your reserves." He thrust a chipped glass toward Jamal. "Cold, but it'll do before tea water boils up." Raising his own glass, his eyes glinted. "A toast..." the smile sharpened, "to your homecoming." Their glasses clinked:
soft, hollow. A sound that knew what it interrupted.
Fawas folded into the opposite couch, leg crossed.
Jamal leaned back, swirling his drink without sipping, gaze skating over the rim as if searching for something behind it. "Truth is…" His voice dropped low. "Nostalgia didn't bring me home." A hesitation. "I came for the Shaykh. And maybe… to find something I lost. Or forgot."
Fawas studied him, nodding once. Slower. Less friend, more witness.
Jamal looked up. "And your dad?"
Fawas's breath drew in, deliberate. "A lot's happened, *akhi*."
"You know Waziri, right?"
"The sharp-tongued one?" Jamal's eyebrow lifted. "Dark-skinned. Walks like he owns the sky?"
Fawas burst out laughing. "That's him. Self-declared philosopher-king. Second-in-command and chief saboteur."
"So the Sufi circles didn't fry my memory then," Jamal said, a lopsided grin forming. Their laughter erupted, loud, uncontrolled, like boys again, just for a breath.
Then Jamal's voice dropped like a stone. "What about him, though? What's Waziri got to do with your dad's absence?"
Fawas leaned forward, elbows digging into his knees. "Patience brother. It's layered. A betrayal. A cover-up. A vanishing act. And eventually… prison."
"SubhanAllah," Jamal whispered, stunned. "All this in just seven years?"
"Seven years," Fawas echoed. "Felt longer to me."
A sharp whistle pierced the room, the kettle in the kitchen, shrill as a breaking thought.
Fawas stood, brushing invisible dust from his jeans. "We just keep praying," he said, voice roughened. "That Allah holds us upright. That He forgives the ones we couldn't save." He turned toward the kitchen.
Jamal heard metal scrape tile, cupboard doors groan. Ceramic clinked. The whistle faded, replaced by the low hush of poured water.
______.
Moments later, Fawas returned, tray in hand. He passed Jamal and set it gently on the dining table near the archway, steam curling into the air like a question mark.
Then, just as he turned, his voice hooked the room again, a net tossed behind him. "Still shocks me, though…
Jamal looked up eager now.
" you missed Almeida's initiation, and yet you're *untouched?" Fawas dropped the bomb.
Jamal flinched at the mention of Almeida.
The name hit like sharded glass in his wine-dark reflection.
He's not in the mood to talk about anything concerning Almeida.
Truth is,
Since his departure, He'd tried to meet few women, women with gentle hands and gentler lies. A boss's daughter who'd promised forever, then traded his ring for a yacht and a banker. Or perhaps something within his soul was pushing them away he couldn't tell.
Betrayal was a language he spoke fluently now.
But his soul? It refused to land.
He had thought he'd have nothing to do with women anymore, not until the dream Four years ago.
In the stillness of tahajjud.
A scent like oud and rain.
A whisper that wasn't a voice:
"Find me where the river bends." That dream didn't invite him.
It dragged him back. Back to Nur Afiya.
Not a choice. More like a Command.
Jamal murmured into his glass, "He doesn't know what really happened that night…"
Fawas stood framed in the archway now. Shadow-lined. Unblinking.
"What happened that night?" he asked, softer now.
Jamal didn't stir, lost in memory's thorns.
"Jamal."
He startled, wine sloshing perilously. "What?"
"You said *that night*," Fawas pressed, stepping into the parlor. "Which night?"
Jamal's knuckles whitened around the glass.
"oo.. right. I was talking about Almeida's case," he finally rasped.
Fawas leaned in from the archway, feigning interest, voice velvet wrapped around steel. "What about it?"
The Silence thickened. Even the Sound of a pin drop can be heard.
Jamal's gaze lifted, dark, warning. "Sleeping dogs bite when woken." Softer, almost to himself: "I'll tell you. When the river's ready."
Fawas raised his hand in mock surrender. "Whenever you're ready," he said, eyes unwavering, heading back to the kitchen.
'Ding' Jamal's phone chimed, he picked it up to see the notification, but His eyes caught the time first, 11:04 PM. The digits glared from the screen. "SubhanAllah," he muttered, thick with sudden exhaustion. He pressed his back, the gesture slightly too deliberate. "It's past eleven already, after a Thirteen-hour bus ride. My spine's filing a complaint." An anchor thrown into Fawas's revelation.
Fawas returned with a basket. His eyes flickering over Jamal's wince. "Tax for showing unannounced," he chuckled, drier now.
Jamal stood stiffly, avoiding Fawas' gaze. "Your father's story… can wait till morning." He stretched. "Tomorrow, top of my list, I need to see the Shaykh. Main reason I'm back."
"So... you staying here, or you made a reservation?" Fawas asked, tone neutral, gaze lingering.
"Here of course," Jamal confirmed, meeting his eyes, a silent plea. "Talk more tomorrow, inshaAllah."
"Okay." Fawas nodded. Then, a bright, unguarded grin broke through. He lifted the cloth-covered basket. "Fresh bread, Got it this afternoon." Wonder softened his voice. "Spirit nudged me. Like the house knew you were coming."
"Let's soften the night," he declared, pouring tea. "Before we drift into the dreamscape."
Jamal sank back, offering a grateful, weary smile. He reached for the crusty loaf. "the souls are wiser than man," he murmured, tearing it. Steam sighed fragrantly. "I've walked roads where welcome arrived before invitation."
They worked calmly: spreading butter that wept gold, drizzling honey like sunlight. Tea steamed, spiced, earthy incense. Calming. Slow. Like a perfected ritual.
Silence settled; sacred, not awkward. Two men, reunited by fate, chewing slowly through memory and bread. The postponed story hung, respectfully set aside.
Unhurried minutes passed: soft cup clink, teaspoon tap, butter scrape.
....
After the plates were emptied and cups left half-drunk, Jamal wiped his hands and leaned back, eyes scanning the room with quiet intensity. Boyhood shadows still clung to the corners. Ghosts, faint but familiar, shimmered in the dim.
"I'll take the visitor's room," he said, voice firm but low. "No more sneaking upstairs… hiding from giants." His gaze lingered on the ceiling before settling on Fawas. "We're grown now. And your father's presence… isn't what it was."
Fawas nodded slowly, a shift in his expression. "Yeah. Things change." He added, practical as ever, "All the rooms are clean. The cleaner came this morning."
Jamal stood, stretching. Weariness clung to him like dust. He picked up his bag with a quiet grunt.
"Good to see you, brother. We've got a lot to unpack... But the need for rest?" He paused mid-step, yawning, "Still undefeated."
Fawas chuckled, gathering the plates. "Sleep easy," he said, then turned toward the stairs.
The house settled around them. Walls breathed. Doors sighed.
And the night folded gently,
not with closure,
but with the careful pause of something waiting.
Sleep came, eventually. But not silence.
Even in rest, the soul listens.
And what stirs beneath the surface?
That would rise with morning.