Chapter 1
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Author's Voice
It was just past midnight.
In the dim halo of her bedside lamp, Alya Rachman lay curled beneath the blankets, her forehead creased even in sleep—as if the weight of her silent burdens followed her into dreams.
BEEP… BEEP… BEEP.
The alarm sliced through the stillness. Eyes fluttering open, heavy with fatigue, Alya moved without hesitation, silencing the device with a single, practiced hand.
No protests. No complaints. Only quiet determination.
She slipped from the bed and padded to the washroom. The icy trickle of water jolted her fully awake as she performed wudu with meticulous care. Soon after, her prayer mat lay spread beneath a slender beam of moonlight drifting through the curtains.
Her arms rose, slow and deliberate, as she began her Tahajjud.
Soft. Reverent.
Yet her heart thundered against her ribs.
Tears trailed down her cheeks as her forehead met the prayer mat in sujood, each silent drop carrying the ache she dared not voice. Lips moving, she poured her whispered supplications into the night's embrace, seeking solace only Allah could grant.
When that vigil ended, Alya lifted her tasbeeh, letting each bead mark her dhikr—a lifeline in the darkness. The only other sound was the measured tick of the clock, until the distant call of the mosque's Fajr azan drifted through her window.
She closed her eyes, responding in her heart to the call of worship. Then, weary but uplifted, she rose to perform Fajr salah. Afterwards, she settled at her desk and opened the Qur'an, losing herself in its verses.
A gentle breeze fluttered the curtains, as though carrying her silent du'a across the sleeping city.
Then—
a sharp, impatient knock at the door.
> "Alya!"
"Come downstairs. Now!"
Her chest tightened. Fingers gripped the edge of her desk. The fragile peace shattered.
The day had begun.
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Alya's Perspective
My hands trembled as I straightened my hijab and crept downstairs, every heartbeat drumming in my ears. Before me stood my chachi, Sari Rachman—stern eyes glittering with impatience.
Without warning, a stinging slap cracked across my cheek.
Pain exploded.
I tasted copper but swallowed every cry. A fiery handprint bloomed on my skin.
> "You useless girl!" she hissed.
"My brother has an important meeting—and you're still dawdling. What use are you?"
Tears threatened, but I dared not blink. I lowered my gaze, unwilling to face her fury.
> "Now move—bring the tray before I lose my patience!"
I fled to the kitchen, every step mechanical. Tea, toast, eggs—I arranged them on a silver tray, eyes fixed on the patterned floor tiles. Footsteps thundered down the stairs—my father.
Rafi Rachman: six feet tall, unwavering, unforgiving.
He sat without a word. My fingers shook as I set the tray before him and backed away, heart pounding. I wondered, as I always did, whether he even remembered the sound of my voice.
Not that I could speak.
My silence is no choice—it is a prison I've known too long.
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Reyhan's Perspective
Miles away in his opulent estate, Reyhan Pratama rose at the same Fajr azan, the call echoing softly through hidden speakers. He opened his eyes, felt no desire to linger beneath his covers.
Wudu—Fajr—the rhythms of discipline. Yet beneath his practiced calm stirred something unnamed.
After prayer, he unleashed his energy into a punishing workout: jab, cross, hook—sweat and repetition. A cold shower followed, then a crisp white shirt and dark trousers. He entered the grand dining hall as though stepping onto a stage.
> "Assalamu alaikum," he offered briefly. Servants stiffened. Family members inclined their heads.
He poured his black coffee and checked his phone. One unread message—from an unknown number:
> "Reyhan, please forgive me… give me one more chance. I love you."
He stared, fingers poised. Then typed:
> "You don't deserve me."
He drained his cup, but his expression darkened.
His grandfather, Miko Pratama—Dadajaan—cleared his throat.
> "Reyhan," the old man said softly, "it's time you marry. I wish to see a great-grandchild before I pass on."
Reyhan's spine locked.
> "Don't speak of it," he snapped.
"I'll not discuss marriage."
He rose and left the table. Moments later, he sat in his car.
> "Office," he ordered the driver, voice clipped.
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Author's Voice
By midday, Alya finished her morning chores and slipped away to perform Dhuhr salah. The sun blazed overhead, but she found solace in sujood, bowing her burdens into the earth.
Afterwards, she scribbled a question onto her notepad:
> Are we out of vegetables?
Sari's reply came in swift, brusque strokes:
> Go buy some. Don't waste time.
Alya nodded and ventured into the bustling market. An hour later, she returned laden with heavy bags, sweat matting her back.
She glanced at her watch—
4:30 PM.
Panic surged.
Without thinking, she stepped into the street. A sudden screech of brakes—too late.
CRASH.
She tumbled to the pavement, searing pain blooming in her leg.
Two men sprang from the car.
> "Are you okay?" one called, concern in his voice.
Alya tried to stand, but her leg gave way. She limped backward as fast as she could.
A third figure emerged—tall, dark, commanding. Reyhan Pratama.
His jaw clenched.
> "She's hurt," said his cousin Zaki. "Shouldn't we help?"
Reyhan's gaze remained fixed on Alya's retreating form—her fragile frame framed by the afternoon light.
He murmured, almost imperceptibly,
> "SubhanAllah."
Zaki stepped forward again.
> "Sister, let us help you!"
But Alya shook her head and vanished into the crowd.
Reyhan lowered his eyes. For the first time in years, something inside him constricted.
> "Ameen," he whispered, echoing Zaki's silent prayer.
And somewhere high above the city, two du'as—one pleading for escape, the other waiting to be answered—brushed the gates of the heavens.