The call to Maghrib had already faded into the city’s quiet hum by the time I stepped outside. A thin breeze tugged at my coat, and the sidewalk reflected the last orange hues of the sky. I hadn’t prayed yet. Again.
I told myself I'd catch up when I got home. But I knew I probably wouldn’t.
The mosque’s lights glowed golden across the street. From the far windows, I could see shadows of men bowing in congregation, rising in unity, some with hands raised in earnest du’a. I turned my gaze away.
Lately, I’d been avoiding places that made me remember who I used to be.
Two years ago, I was the one walking into that mosque at every prayer. Now I was the man standing alone in the shadows, too ashamed to enter.
I don’t even know when it started — when I let go of the rope. Maybe it was the move, the stress of a new job, the loneliness of a city that didn't know my name. But hardship wasn’t the excuse. It was the choices I made within it.
Some nights, alone in my apartment, I’d whisper apologies to Allah in the dark. But I never had the courage to really ask for forgiveness. In the back of my mind, I believed it wouldn’t be accepted.
How could He forgive someone like me — someone who knew what was right and turned away from it anyway?
I kept walking, pacing slowly past the mosque, when I noticed a child outside. Maybe six or seven, her little hands cupped around a paper lantern that glowed faintly from within. Her father stood beside her, adjusting her scarf with gentle fingers.
She looked at me and smiled wide — a gap-toothed, unfiltered beam of joy. She held out the lantern to me.
“For you,” she said simply. “Baba says we’re giving noor tonight.”
I hesitated. “Noor?”
“Light,” she said, nodding seriously. “He says everyone's sad sometimes. So we’re sharing light. Allah has lots.”
Her father gave me a small nod, a quiet salaam, and they walked off, leaving the lantern in my hands.
My fingers gripped around its delicate frame. Warmth pulsed through the paper sides, tiny holes releasing dots of brightness. I stood still, flooded by a strange ache — something between guilt and hope.
Maybe Allah did have lots.
Maybe His mercy wasn’t measured by the years I had drifted, but by this moment — the choice to turn back, even now.
I crossed the street slowly, clutching the lantern. The doors of the mosque opened automatically as I approached, and the scent of old carpet and clean socks welcomed me in.
I didn’t join the congregation still finishing their sunnah prayers. I sat quietly at the back.
At first, I couldn’t say anything.
Then, without planning, a verse drifted into my memory — something my mother used to recite when she cried over her own sins.
"Say, ‘O My servants who have transgressed against themselves, do not despair of Allah’s mercy. Indeed, Allah forgives all sins.’"
I buried my face in my hands. Something cracked open.
And I finally asked. Really asked.
The words came out choked, slow, without structure — not the composed du’a of someone pious, but the unraveling of a man tired of running.
I don’t know how long I sat there.
But when I stood, the weight felt different. Not gone. But lighter.
Outside, night had fallen. But the lantern still glowed in my hand.
And for the first time in a long time, I felt like I could begin again.
Qur’an & Hadith References:
The call to Maghrib had already faded into the city’s quiet hum by the time I stepped outside. A thin breeze tugged at my coat, and the sidewalk reflected the last orange hues of the sky. I hadn’t prayed yet. Again.
I told myself I'd catch up when I got home. But I knew I probably wouldn’t.
The mosque’s lights glowed golden across the street. From the far windows, I could see shadows of men bowing in congregation, rising in unity, some with hands raised in earnest du’a. I turned my gaze away.
Lately, I’d been avoiding places that made me remember who I used to be.
Two years ago, I was the one walking into that mosque at every prayer. Now I was the man standing alone in the shadows, too ashamed to enter.
I don’t even know when it started — when I let go of the rope. Maybe it was the move, the stress of a new job, the loneliness of a city that didn't know my name. But hardship wasn’t the excuse. It was the choices I made within it.
Some nights, alone in my apartment, I’d whisper apologies to Allah in the dark. But I never had the courage to really ask for forgiveness. In the back of my mind, I believed it wouldn’t be accepted.
How could He forgive someone like me — someone who knew what was right and turned away from it anyway?
I kept walking, pacing slowly past the mosque, when I noticed a child outside. Maybe six or seven, her little hands cupped around a paper lantern that glowed faintly from within. Her father stood beside her, adjusting her scarf with gentle fingers.
She looked at me and smiled wide — a gap-toothed, unfiltered beam of joy. She held out the lantern to me.
“For you,” she said simply. “Baba says we’re giving noor tonight.”
I hesitated. “Noor?”
“Light,” she said, nodding seriously. “He says everyone's sad sometimes. So we’re sharing light. Allah has lots.”
Her father gave me a small nod, a quiet salaam, and they walked off, leaving the lantern in my hands.
My fingers gripped around its delicate frame. Warmth pulsed through the paper sides, tiny holes releasing dots of brightness. I stood still, flooded by a strange ache — something between guilt and hope.
Maybe Allah did have lots.
Maybe His mercy wasn’t measured by the years I had drifted, but by this moment — the choice to turn back, even now.
I crossed the street slowly, clutching the lantern. The doors of the mosque opened automatically as I approached, and the scent of old carpet and clean socks welcomed me in.
I didn’t join the congregation still finishing their sunnah prayers. I sat quietly at the back.
At first, I couldn’t say anything.
Then, without planning, a verse drifted into my memory — something my mother used to recite when she cried over her own sins.
"Say, ‘O My servants who have transgressed against themselves, do not despair of Allah’s mercy. Indeed, Allah forgives all sins.’"
I buried my face in my hands. Something cracked open.
And I finally asked. Really asked.
The words came out choked, slow, without structure — not the composed du’a of someone pious, but the unraveling of a man tired of running.
I don’t know how long I sat there.
But when I stood, the weight felt different. Not gone. But lighter.
Outside, night had fallen. But the lantern still glowed in my hand.
And for the first time in a long time, I felt like I could begin again.
Qur’an & Hadith References:
