Tale#31: Bedtime Tales: Episode19:The Hidden Note in the Mushaf |Tuesday
A story about love, connection, and the quiet friendship between a child and the Quran.
The rain fell gently outside, not the loud kind that frightened Zayn, but the soft kind that made the window glass fog and left silvery streaks down the panes. It was late afternoon, and the house smelled of cardamom chai and freshly folded laundry.
In the quiet of the living room, Aymen sat with her Quran open on the prayer mat, her lips moving in silent recitation. The golden edges of the mushaf shimmered slightly under the warm lamp beside her. A few feet away, Sara lounged on the carpet, flipping through a drawing book. But her eyes kept drifting to the Quran in her mother’s lap.
“Mama,” she asked slowly, “why do you always look... peaceful when you read that?”
Aymen paused mid-ayah and smiled. “Because the Quran is not just a book we read, Sara. It’s a book that reads us too.”
Sara frowned, “Reads us?”
Aymen nodded. “It sees where we are, what we need. Some days, an ayah feels like a hug. Other days, like a mirror.”
Sara didn’t say anything for a while. But something inside her stirred—like a small hand knocking from the inside of her chest, curious and unsure.
That night, when the house was asleep and only the hallway nightlight glowed faintly, Sara tiptoed back downstairs. Her footsteps were soft, like she was afraid to wake the furniture.
She reached for her own Quran—the one with the blue leather cover and her name embossed in silver letters. It had been a gift from her grandmother last Eid. She had tried reading from it a few times, but it felt... heavy. Not just in weight, but in meaning. The Arabic letters still danced too fast, and the meanings felt far away, like stars you could see but not reach.
But tonight, she opened it anyway.
Page after page, she ran her fingers lightly over the text. And then, without even realizing why, she took a small square of paper and began to write.
Dear Quran,
I don’t always understand you.
But Mama does. She looks so calm when she reads you. I want that too.
Sometimes you feel like a big secret I’m not old enough to learn. But I want to try.
So here’s a note… from me to you. I’ll come visit more often.
Please wait for me.
Love,
Sara
She folded the note and gently slipped it between two pages—somewhere near the middle. It wasn’t a special surah or a famous ayah. Just a quiet space that felt right. Then she closed the mushaf, kissed its cover like she had seen Mama do, and returned to bed.
Days passed.
And true to her word, Sara began to return. Some evenings, just for five minutes. Other days, longer. Sometimes she’d just recite the few short surahs she knew. Other times, she’d trace the calligraphy with her finger, whispering the words like she was trying to make friends with them.
And every time she opened the Quran, she’d glance at the folded note—still tucked quietly in its place. A secret between her and the Book. A little reminder that she had made a promise. And that promises matter.
One day, she asked Aymen to teach her the meaning of Surah Ad-Duha. And as they read through it together, Sara felt something unusual. Not excitement. Not pride. But something deeper.
It felt like home.
Weeks later, Aymen found the note. She hadn’t meant to read it—it had slipped out as she was helping Sara tidy her shelf. But she did read it. And her eyes softened, filling with tears not of sadness but of duas being answered.
She didn’t say anything to Sara that night. Instead, she opened her own Quran and tucked in a note of her own:
Dear Allah,
Thank You for guiding her heart.
Let her always return to Your words—when she’s happy, when she’s lost, when she’s growing.
Make the Quran her friend, her mirror, her map.
Ameen.
And just like that, two hearts became tied by one Book.
One reading to understand.
The other, learning to love.
And in between them... a hidden note.
Carrying a promise.
Carrying light.