Baghdad, 816 CE
Several days had passed since Aisha last breathed the dry air of Khurasan. The dusty streets of Merv now lay far behind her, replaced by the splendor of Baghdad—grandeur beyond anything she had imagined. Gardens lining the palace walls swayed gently in the spring breeze, releasing an intoxicating blend of rose fragrance and burning agarwood drifting down from the watchtowers.
At Aisha's own request, her family had departed early for the heart of the caliphate. She had grown weary of Merv's quiet predictability; her spirit yearned for the fervor of the Bayt al-Hikmah, where scholars unraveled the secrets of heaven and earth with ink and logic. Al-Fadl, her father, harbored deep misgivings about granting his daughter such freedom. Yet as a father powerless against the bright hunger for knowledge in her eyes—or perhaps her curiosity about the great city—he finally relented.
"By the heavens! This truly is the center of the world!" Aisha exclaimed when she first stepped into the courtyard of the Bayt al-Hikmah alongside her cousin, Layla bint al-Hasan.
Aisha wasted no time. On her very first day, she found herself locked in heated debate with several learned men over Aristotelian logic. Layla repeatedly tugged at the edge of Aisha's veil, trying to temper her cousin's fearless boldness—boldness that visibly irritated more than a few bearded scholars. Aisha spoke with confidence but without the depth expected in such circles; she had always preferred horseback riding to study. Her courage was a double-edged blade: admired for its audacity, resented for its sharpness, especially in a woman of her time.
Yet that brightness was only a thin stroke of paint over a darkening canvas.
That night, an unnatural cold settled into the palace chamber where Aisha slept. The oil lamp in the corner flickered weakly, its wick nearly spent, casting long, wavering shadows across the marble walls—shapes that danced like starving specters. Aisha lay beneath silk curtains, but her sleep was restless.
She dreamed of an endless white expanse, light reflecting off a surface without edges. Familiar faces appeared—small children calling to her, their voices echoing as though dragged across a great distance. Then a whisper pierced her ears, icy and deliberate:
"What harm is there in understanding humans just once, young girl? One small step will not undo everything."
"No! You are a devil—leave my thoughts!" Aisha cried in her sleep, her body slick with cold sweat, her nightclothes soaked.
She jolted awake, breath ragged. Her heartbeat thundered painfully, as if it might tear free from within her. "Allahu Akbar," she whispered, trembling. The silent chamber suddenly felt hostile, as though unseen eyes watched her from every shadow. Unable to return to sleep, Aisha decided to retrieve a mushaf from the outer hall, hoping the words of God would steady her fractured spirit.
As she moved through the darkened corridor, her keen hearing caught something amiss.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Footsteps—measured, cautious. Too deliberate for an honest palace servant.
Slowly, Aisha drew aside a thin curtain near the main hall.
Two men in worn clothing moved with dangerous precision. One carried a large bundle wrapped in coarse fabric. It was heavy—and something dark dripped beneath it, glistening faintly in the moonlight filtering through the windows.
Not bread.
Not scrolls.
A human body?
Her pulse spiked. Where were the guards who normally stood watch? Why did the palace—so grand by day—now feel like a tomb? A dreadful realization struck her: betrayal was unfolding beneath her father's roof.
She turned to flee toward her mother's chamber, but in her panic, her foot caught on the edge of a thick Persian carpet.
Crash.
Aisha fell hard. Pain flared from her knee as it struck the marble, but fear drowned it instantly. Before she could release a single cry, a rough hand—calloused, reeking of stale tobacco—clamped over her mouth.
"I will fight you! Do not touch me! I am the Vizier's daughter!" she shouted through the grip, biting down until she tasted blood.
"This girl speaks too much," a cold voice commanded from the darkness. "Silence her forever if necessary."
The dying oil lamp revealed part of the second figure's face—a woman wearing a thin veil, though her eyes betrayed her. Aisha froze. The pain in her knee faded beneath a deeper wound.
She knew those eyes.
A woman she had trusted within the palace.
"You… you betrayed me?"
Crack.
The hilt of a dagger struck her temple. The world spun violently, stars bursting across her vision, before everything inverted—and darkness swallowed her whole.
Darkness claimed the girl of the ninth century.
Now—what of the girl from the twenty-first?
Palembang, Indonesia — 2024
The rain had fallen without pause since after Isya, pounding a deafening rhythm against the metal roof of the girls' dormitory. Wind slipped through the gaps in the aging wooden windows, carrying a cold that sank deep into the bones.
Ruqayyah sat alone in the silent dormitory kitchen, accompanied by long shadows cast by a flickering emergency lamp. She was preparing rice for the next morning's breakfast—enough to feed hundreds of students. It was a routine task, one she usually found calming. With near-meditative rhythm, she poured grains into a massive pot.
"Almost done," she murmured to herself, fighting the heaviness pressing down on her eyelids. "I just want to sleep."
Her hand trembled slightly as she turned the gas knob. Blue flame hissed to life, wavering under gusts of wind that slipped through a window that refused to close properly. Ruqayyah bent forward, focusing on the water beginning to bubble, trying to ignore the thunder rattling the glass—and her thoughts.
Fatigue betrayed her.
She made one mistake that would change everything.
She draped a cleaning cloth over her shoulder too loosely, letting it hang unattended. As she leaned down to check the gas pressure, the fabric brushed the flickering flame.
In seconds, fire climbed greedily upward.
The sharp, synthetic stench of smoke tore into her senses, sending instant alarm through her mind.
"Astaghfirullah!" Ruqayyah cried. She tried to yank the cloth away with her bare hand, but the flames had already leapt to the nearby plastic curtain.
Thick black smoke flooded the kitchen with terrifying speed, rolling like a living creature. Her eyes burned violently, vision blurring as she coughed, her breathing turning frantic. Panic paralyzed her limbs.
"Ya Allah… please!"
She ran for the back door—it wouldn't budge. The wood had swollen from moisture and heat. She struck the window, only to remember the iron bars bolted outside for security. The cramped kitchen became a massive furnace. Heat scorched her face and hands.
Ruqayyah dropped to the floor, crawling in search of thinner air beneath the suffocating smoke. Each breath felt like inhaling molten metal. She remembered her teacher once speaking of the honor of those who die in fires—but in that moment, survival eclipsed all thoughts of glory.
The boiling water in the pot spilled as the structure shuddered, hissing violently when it met the flames, releasing scalding steam that stole what little air remained. Her heart raced uncontrollably; dizziness overtook her.
Then—
BOOM.
A thunderous explosion ripped through the night.
The old refrigerator in the corner burst apart, its compressor unable to withstand the rising heat. The blast hurled Ruqayyah's small body into the concrete wall. Her head struck the edge of a metal table—pain flashed briefly—
—and then rain, fire, and her own cries vanished into silence.
The world dissolved into darkness.
Her soul drifted toward an endless white expanse.