The White Realm: The Hall of Records
At the heart of an endless expanse stood the Hall of Records—a place where every breath of a soul was catalogued and every thread of destiny engraved with flawless precision. Silent Guardians moved between shelves of hovering books made of light. Their duties were only three: to observe, to guide, and never—to interfere.
Except for one.
Her name was Serena.
Serena had served longer than most of the Guardians. She understood the laws of the cosmos better than nearly anyone. Yet beneath her immortality, she carried a burden the others did not: compassion and impatience. Two forbidden traits in this realm, yet they grew quietly within her, like ivy clinging to stone.
One day, her gaze fell upon a soul newly returned—a child still so young, a toddler called back far too soon to the spirit realm. Something inside Serena stirred. She knew she could not alter fate entirely. But when a brief delay occurred in the soul's passage toward a human womb, Serena saw an opening.
In a single, fragile second, she acted.
She nudged the soul forward, sending it into the world earlier than ordained. The act was minuscule, almost imperceptible to the eye of the universe. But the White Realm knew no forgiveness for even the smallest deviation.
Serena's fate was sealed instantly.
Her name was erased from the Hall of Records. Her existence dissolved, reduced to a whisper among eternal shadows. Yet the ripple she created traveled far. Centuries passed, and the soul she had once touched was reborn in ways no one had foreseen—one life in the splendor of Baghdad, another in a modern world she herself would never know.
Two lives.
Two eras.
Bound by a single act of compassion that should never have existed.
Merv, Khurasan — 816 CE
Aisha bint al-Fadl grew up surrounded by luxuries she had never asked for. As the daughter of al-Fadl ibn Sahl—the immensely powerful vizier at the heart of the Abbasid caliphate—her name often arrived before she did. Yet it was not merely her status that drew attention, but the way she carried herself: alert, agile, and always pretending she did not notice the thousands of eyes watching her.
Her beauty was not the loud, careless kind. Her features bore the gentle lines of Persian blood, her skin pale as porcelain rarely touched by the sun, her gaze clear yet unreadable. At sixteen, she had already mastered the art of being seen without being known.
That morning, she moved through the bustling market of Merv. Zahra, her personal maid, struggled behind her with a basket brimming with expensive fabrics, while Haidar, her loyal guard, scanned the surroundings with a hawk's vigilance.
"My lady, if you buy one more scarf, my hands will truly break," Zahra muttered.
Aisha glanced at the basket. "You exaggerate, Zahra. Last winter you carried twice this load."
"That was different," Zahra replied quickly. "You were ill then, and I was terrified you'd grow colder if I didn't buy enough."
Haidar cleared his throat, barely suppressing a laugh. "Should I be concerned for Zahra's safety, my lady?"
Aisha smiled—that familiar smile. "Only if her complaints reach my father's ears."
The rhythm of the market swallowed them again: sharp spices, shouting merchants, the scent of freshly dyed cloth. Aisha paused before a jewelry stall, lifting a gold necklace with practiced fingers.
"This one is beautiful," she said simply.
Zahra sighed in relief. "Praise be. Every time we come here, you say the same thing. If you visited daily, all the gold in Merv would end up in the palace."
Aisha turned, fixing Zahra with a flat stare sharp enough to drain the color from her face. Zahra immediately bowed her head, mortified. Haidar turned away, shoulders shaking with silent laughter.
Then Aisha's attention shifted.
Across the way, a rough-looking man was shouting at a woman in tattered clothes. She clutched a small bundle tightly to her chest.
"That debt shames me! Hand it over!" the man barked.
"It belongs to our child—please," the woman whispered.
Smack.
The sound cracked through the air as his palm struck her cheek. She staggered but did not release the bundle. The crowd looked away, eager not to be involved.
Without hesitation, Aisha stepped forward.
"Is this how you preserve your honor, sir?"
The man spun toward her, furious. "This is a family matter. Stay out of it!"
"Harming the weaker has never been a private affair," Aisha replied coolly.
When his hand rose again, Aisha's heel struck his wrist—swift, controlled.
"Do not. Touch. Her."
Haidar moved instantly to Aisha's side. The presence of the large guard was enough. The man retreated into the crowd, disappearing as quickly as his courage had fled.
Aisha turned to the trembling woman. "If you need work, come to the House of al-Fadl," she said gently.
The market resumed its pulse. Everything appeared normal once more.
But far away, in the Hall of Records, a name flickered briefly—an omen that the lines of destiny had begun to shift.
Palembang, Indonesia — 2024
Rain hammered against the corrugated roof of the pesantren, its rhythm loud and unruly since after Isya. Wind slipped through window gaps, sending the trees in the courtyard into wild motion. At nine o'clock sharp, the lights went out.
Darkness swallowed the corridors, broken only by flickering emergency lamps. Calm dissolved instantly into theatrical chaos.
"Astaghfirullah! A pocong!"
"That's your own shadow, idiot!"
Ruqayyah, seated on the top bunk, exhaled slowly. She swung her legs down, slipped on her instant hijab, and stood.
"Again?" she muttered, her expression characteristically flat.
While other students ran—some deliberately draping themselves in white prayer garments to scare their friends—Ruqayyah watched them as one might observe a tedious circus.
Bela appeared in the doorway, laughing so hard her shoulders shook. "Ruq! I'm going to crawl like a ghost! Come on!"
"Do you realize what time it is?" Ruqayyah replied evenly. "We have Qur'an recitation tomorrow."
"That's what makes it fun! The ghosts will forget we have memorization," Bela shot back with a wicked grin.
The chaos only ended when the dorm supervisor arrived wielding a large flashlight. Ruqayyah, who had planned to iron her uniform, abandoned the idea—the building's electricity was still out. Instead, she headed for the library, which ran on a backup generator.
It was warm. Quiet.
She wandered between shelves, fingertips brushing the cool spines of books. Her hand stopped on a thick, dark-covered volume.
"You're interested in history?"
The soft voice startled her.
Ruqayyah turned sharply. A woman stood there—neatly dressed, her age impossible to guess. She held a book on the Abbasid Dynasty.
"This was a time when knowledge was the crown of the world," the woman said. Her eyes carried an unsettling depth. "But in 1258, it all fell. Books were thrown into the Tigris until the water darkened with ink—and tears."
Ruqayyah swallowed. "Was everything truly lost?"
"Much was lost," the woman answered quietly. "Not only writings, but memories—and souls that were meant to remain bound."
Ruqayyah stood frozen. Something unfamiliar pressed against her chest, as though she recognized the voice. She blinked.
The woman was gone.
The library was silent once more.
"Where did she—?" A shiver ran through Ruqayyah. "A hallucination?"
The door creaked open. Bela entered, hands on her hips. "Ruq! What are you doing alone in here? Weren't you going to iron?"
Ruqayyah offered a thin smile, forcing the unease away. "Changed my mind. Let's go back before security catches us."
Outside, the rain continued to fall.
But within Ruqayyah, a thread of destiny—severed a thousand years ago—had begun to stitch itself back together.