Seeking Her Forgiveness

29. Seeking Her forgiveness

Everything seemed to stop, as if Israfil (peace be upon him) had blown his trumpet and the Day of Judgment had arrived. It was no less than the Day of Judgment for Azlan. The entire corridor was shrouded in the shadow of death. There was complete silence everywhere, as if time itself had ceased.

Azlan's mind was blank, his heart numb with a dread so deep it seemed to silence every other thought.

Then, Musa's voice cut through the fog.

"Enişte... no." Musa walked toward his father and then turned to Azlan, his voice choked with a mixture of relief and anxiety. "Baba, you're... you're all standing in front of the wrong room." His words were tentative but filled with cautious hope. "Api is in the other room. This isn't... this isn't her."

Azlan's heart lurched, caught between disbelief and a desperate surge of hope. He looked into Musa's eyes, searching for reassurance, and Musa nodded, giving him the confirmation he needed.

In that instant, Azlan broke into a sprint, nearly stumbling as he rushed to the correct room. Every step was a whispered prayer, a soul's yearning for Allah's mercy, the words spilling silently from his lips over and over. "Ya Allah, thank You. Thank You for giving me another chance."

Behind him, Fahad let out a long, shaky breath, sagging in relief. Towsif, who had been supporting him, patted him on the back, his own face a mix of exhaustion and hope. Even Haya, who had kept her distance from Shahana for so long, closed her eyes and let out a silent sigh. For a moment, the shared dread bound them all together, united in a fragile hope.

Azlan reached the room, and when he finally saw her—lying pale and fragile on the bed, but breathing—he felt the weight of the world lift from his shoulders. She was alive. His vision blurred with tears, and he pressed a trembling hand to his mouth, trying to stifle the sob rising from deep within him.

"Thank You, Allah," he whispered, his voice breaking. "Thank You." In that moment, he felt the full weight of lā ḥawla wa lā quwwata illā billāh—"There is no power nor strength except by God." He understood, in his very bones, that life and death were beyond his control, held only in the hands of Allah.

The family members gathered quietly behind him, each overwhelmed by relief yet still tense with worry. Fahad, who had been standing like a statue, sank into a nearby chair, his eyes fixed on his daughter. Memories flooded his mind—the sound of her laughter when she was a child, her small hands reaching out for him as he came home each evening. He remembered how she would throw her arms around him, demanding to be picked up, and he'd lift her into the air, swirling her around as she giggled in delight.

Now, that same daughter lay still, surrounded by machines and tubes, her body frail and covered in bruises. The little girl who had once clung to his hand was slipping away, and he was powerless to save her.

The doctor approached Azlan, breaking the silence. "Mr. Azlan, Shahana's condition is still very fragile. The trauma... it's taken a toll on her. Her body might shut down, and if she doesn't regain consciousness soon, she could slip into a coma."

Azlan nodded, forcing down the lump in his throat. He was grateful she was alive, but the fear lingered—a new, sharper fear of a future where she might be there in body but gone in every other way. Yet he made a silent vow to himself to be there, no matter what.

After a while, Towsif, Haya, Musa, and Aiket left, each casting one last, lingering look at Shahana before they walked away. Only Fahad remained, sitting by the window, lost in his own memories and regrets. It was late, and the hospital was quiet, save for the beeping of the machines that measured Shahana's heartbeat.