Tale#9:Threads of Barakah:Episode2
Living the Moments That Matter
Precap of Episode#1:
Aymen found herself in a dream, standing in a lush green meadow, where a magnificent palace loomed ahead. Drawn towards it, she felt an unexplainable pull. Just as she stepped forward, the dreamscape wrapped her in a surreal calm, calling her to explore what lay beyond.
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The palace stood tall and grand, golden domes catching the last streaks of twilight. The air smelled of fresh flowers, something between jasmine and rain, and Aymen felt her heart swell with nostalgia. She hesitated at the entrance, her fingers grazing the cool brass handle of the intricately carved door. Taking a deep breath, she pushed it open.
A soft gasp left her lips.
Inside wasn’t some royal hall or a throne room—it was her childhood home. The living room, just as she remembered it. The soft carpet they used to sit on, the cushions scattered around, the old wooden bookshelf Baba always loved. Every single thing looked untouched by time.
Laughter rang through the air.
She turned a corner and saw them—her younger self, two brothers, and her sister. Huddled together on the floor, playing a board game, grinning ear to ear, completely lost in the moment. The golden light from the windows bathed everything in warmth. Iftar was just around the corner.
She stepped closer, her heart pounding. “Is this really happening?” she murmured.
“Aymen, hurry up! We’re about to win this round!” her younger brother cheered, barely looking up.
Aymen froze, watching her tiny hands grab the dice, that bright, carefree smile on her face. The excitement, the teasing, the lightness of waiting for Iftar as a child—it all hit her like a wave.
Then, a smell drifted through the air.
The sizzle of spices, the rich aroma of lentil soup, crispy samosas, warm bread baking in the oven. Her chest tightened.
She followed the scent, her feet moving on instinct toward the kitchen. And there she was—Mama. Standing by the stove, stirring a pot, the way she always did, humming softly under her breath.
Aymen inhaled sharply. “Mama…”
Her mother turned, eyes lighting up with the same warm smile she knew so well. “Aymen! Come in, sweetheart.”
She hesitated, taking in every detail. The way Mama wiped her hands on her apron, the soft glow of the kitchen, the clatter of dishes in the background.
Mama tilted her head. “Why do you look so serious, sweetheart?”
Aymen swallowed hard. “I just… I miss this. I miss being a kid. I miss not having to think about a million things all at once.”
Mama chuckled, shaking her head. “Do you know why you never had to worry about anything back then?”
Aymen shook her head.
“Because your Baba and I did all the worrying for you,” Mama said softly, placing a hand on her cheek. “We made sure you had everything you needed—school, food, a happy home. That’s what parents do, sweetheart.”
A lump formed in Aymen’s throat.
“And now, it’s your turn,” Mama continued, her voice gentle but firm. “You’re the one making sure your kids feel safe, feel loved. But don’t wear yourself out thinking it’s just a job, Aymen. Live it. Enjoy it. This is a phase, and it’ll pass before you know it. One day, they’ll be grown, just like you are now, and you’ll wish you could come back to these moments.”
Aymen felt her eyes sting. She wanted to say something, anything, but the words wouldn’t come.
Mama turned back to the stove, humming again, as if the conversation had been nothing more than an everyday chat.
Then—
Ring! Ring! Ring!
The sharp chime of her alarm snapped her awake.
She sat up, breath shaky, the dream still wrapped around her like a soft blanket. Pressing a hand to her chest, she exhaled slowly.
Time to wake the kids.
She padded softly to their rooms, smiling to herself. “Zayn, Sara, up you get! Time for Suhoor.”
They groaned, half-asleep, but soon stumbled to the dining table, where Hasan was already pouring water into glasses. As they ate, Aymen watched them, really watched them, her mother’s words playing over in her mind.
After Zuhr prayer, as she sat on the prayer mat reciting Quran, the doorbell rang.
She frowned. Who could that be?
Opening the door, she found Azizah standing there, her ever-smiling, talkative neighbor.
“Ramadan Kareem, Aymen!” Azizah beamed, holding up a small package.
“Ramadan Kareem,” Aymen greeted back, taking it. “What’s this?”
“Dates! Thought I’d drop off a little Ramadan treat,” Azizah said cheerfully, stepping inside.
Aymen chuckled, leading her to the couch.
“So, what’s up?” Azizah asked, plopping down comfortably.
Aymen smiled. “Zayn and Sara are fasting for the first time today. Just making sure everything feels special for them.”
Azizah’s eyes lit up. “Oh, that’s amazing! First fasts are always a big deal.”
After chatting about neighborhood gossip and Ramadan prep, Azizah left, and Aymen turned back to the kitchen. Her mother’s words echoed in her mind as she prepped for Iftar, and for the first time, she found herself smiling instead of feeling overwhelmed.
As Maghrib azan filled the air, the whole family gathered at the table. Grandpa Ahmed leaned forward. “So, tell me, how’d the first fast go?”
Zayn grinned. “It was tough, Dada, but Mama kept us going all day.”
Aymen’s heart swelled.
After Iftar, Grandma Fatima pulled out two small envelopes. “For your first fast,” she said, handing them to the kids.
Excited giggles filled the room.
Just as Aymen finished Maghrib prayer, her phone rang.
Azizah.
She picked up, expecting another lively chat. But the voice on the other end was trembling.
She was crying.
Aymen’s stomach dropped. “Azizah? What’s wrong?”
Azizah’s voice cracked. “Aymen… I—I don’t know what to do.”
Aymen gripped the phone tighter. “Azizah, talk to me. What happened?”
Stay tuned for Episode 3 to find out what’s got Azizah so shaken.