POV: Aisha
Aisha opened her eyes slowly. The blinding white light that had filled her vision moments before was gone, replaced by a dimmer, softer glow. Saleh's voice—the mysterious presence that had made her uneasy—had vanished entirely. What remained was something ordinary, yet utterly bewildering: a pale, flat ceiling, far too low, painfully plain. No gilded Arabic inscriptions, no soaring domes like those in her father's palace.
She blinked once… twice… trying to convince herself she wasn't seeing a trick of the light.
"This… is Ruqayyah's room, isn't it?" she whispered, her voice thin and high, ringing in her own ears like a small bell in the quiet morning. It sounded different from her usual firm, deep tones—lighter, more delicate, even sweet.
She already knew the truth. Saleh had explained—with the sort of poetic chatter she found insufferable—that she would live as a girl from another time. Far from the palace's luxury, without silken fabrics, without servants ready to attend at her every whim. Welcome to the twenty-first century.
But knowing something in theory and living it were two very different matters.
Her gaze fell to her left wrist. She froze. Her breath caught in her throat.
"What is this?" she murmured in horror. Her hand was encased in something black, smooth and cold, with a tiny screen on one edge. No silver filigree, no gemstones, no Arabic script—just a plain black edge, with a faint smudge in one corner.
Aisha brought it closer to her face, squinting.
"A metal bracelet? Or… some kind of protective talisman for ordinary people?" she muttered. Her fingers hesitated, then brushed lightly against the cold surface. In truth, she was touching an IV line running along her arm—but in her mind, it was part of a magical device.
Suddenly, a nearby monitor flickered to life, green lines pulsing in time with her heartbeat.
Aisha shrieked. "ASTAGHFIRULLĀH!" She yanked her hand away, jerking the line slightly. Her eyes widened, a mixture of fear and awe.
"It's alive… this thing breathes?! It follows my heartbeat?!"
Her pulse raced, but within seconds, her fear gave way to curiosity—the same trait that had once landed her in trouble with her father back in Baghdad.
"Calm yourself, Aisha binti Al-Fadl," she murmured, trying to summon the dignity befitting a wazir's daughter. "You've faced clever philosophers, cynical scholars, and treacherous ministers. A glowing bracelet and a metal box will not defeat you."
Before she could dwell further, laughter erupted from a corner of the room.
"Hahaha! You're hilarious!"
Aisha nearly jumped from the bed. She spun around to see a young boy, maybe nine or ten, lounging against the wall. He held a small glowing black rectangle in his hands. His laughter was mischievous, unrestrained, alive.
Aisha lowered herself carefully to the cold tile floor—so different from the thick carpets she was used to.
"Asta…?" she tried, calling the name faintly from memory.
The boy's eyes went wide. He nearly dropped the device. "Sister?! You're awake?! Truly awake?!"
Aisha blinked, forcing herself to appear composed despite the turmoil inside. "Yes, I… I'm awake. Why are you looking at me as though I were a newly freed servant?"
His face immediately lit up. Without waiting for an answer, he sprang to his feet and dashed out of the room.
"Mom! Dad! Sister's awake! She's not a corpse anymore!" His voice echoed down the quiet hospital corridor.
Aisha remained frozen, staring at the open door. The boy's shouting left an odd warmth in her chest. "Is he… Ruqayyah's brother? Truly impolite," she muttered softly, a small trace of fondness stirring.
Soon after, a man in white—whom she recognized as 'the Doctor'—arrived. His presence contrasted sharply with the chaos Asta had caused. The doctor performed a quick checkup, making Aisha uncomfortable with the touch of a stranger, yet she restrained herself for the sake of her disguise. Afterwards, he advised that Aisha be taken home under careful supervision.
Exiting the hospital became a trial. She had to climb into a wheeled metal box called a car. As the doors closed and the engine growled, Aisha gripped the seat so tightly her knuckles whitened.
"What is this… a beast to replace horses and camels? Why does it roar like a monster?" she panicked as the vehicle moved.
Throughout the ride, Aisha's eyes darted at the buildings rushing past. Asta, sitting beside her absorbed in a handheld game, shivered at the thought of his sister. Was she possessed, he wondered?
By the time they arrived at a modest, pale green house, the sun was slicing through thin clouds. The walls were cracked in places, and the iron gate groaned as it swung open, protesting its age.
"So… this is Ruqayyah's palace," Aisha murmured uncertainly. To her, the house seemed smaller than even her father's stables back in Baghdad.
Ruqayyah's mother turned, briefly startled by her daughter's strange gaze, before smiling gently. "Come in, dear. I've prepared your bed."
Inside, the house felt cramped, almost suffocating. The living room was small, with worn bookshelves and family photos on the walls. Aisha stared at the pictures—humans frozen mid-smile on paper? What magic could trap laughter in such thin sheets?
A gray cat leapt into her lap as she sank into a wooden chair.
"Huwaa! What creature are you?!" Aisha nearly threw it but stopped as she felt the softness of its fur.
"That's Moci," Asta appeared from behind the curtains, holding a strange object called a 'TV remote.' "He missed you, Sister."
Aisha blinked, slowly reaching out to stroke Moci. "Moci? Not a dignified name," she said, though a faint smile tugged at her lips.
The next morning, the pale gray sky seemed to echo the chaos in her mind. She had to go to school—not the palace gates, not golden archways, but a building with a green-and-white sign: Pondok Pesantren Islam A.
The smell of wet earth and grass mingled with the aroma of cooking from the canteen. Aisha paused at the gate, adjusting the heavy straps of her bag. Her pulse quickened, but she squared her shoulders and lifted her chin—the posture of a noble princess.
"Ruqayyah!"
A warm voice cut through the morning bustle. A girl with a gentle face and bright eyes approached, wearing the same uniform: dark green blazer and neatly folded white hijab.
"Assalamu'alaikum. Are you feeling better? Alhamdulillah… all the students have been praying for your recovery in the mosque every night," Bela said sincerely.
Aisha swallowed, trying to summon Ruqayyah's memory for an appropriate response. "Wa'alaikumussalam… alhamdulillah," she replied with a forced, polite smile.
But as the word "Alhamdulillah" left her lips, a flash of Ruqayyah's own bitter memories struck her like a wave. Not kindness, but fragments of cruelty: whispers behind her back, scornful stares in the hallways, insults hurled openly by classmates.
Aisha felt a tightness in her chest. This Ruqayyah was not truly loved, despite Bela's claims.
All students praying for me? Aisha thought bitterly. Her eyes narrowed slightly as she watched the other students passing through the courtyard.
Oh, goodness. People still wore the same masks in this century, she mused with quiet scorn. They prayed only to appear pious before the teachers while hiding thorns in their hearts. At least in Baghdad, her father's enemies were honest about drawing their daggers, rather than concealing them behind prayers.
The girl touched Aisha's arm lightly—a gesture meant to convey warmth. Yet Aisha felt it as a carefully constructed falseness. She realized that, while Bela might be sincere, the world surrounding Ruqayyah was a battlefield, not so different from the poisoned court of the Wazir.
Aisha inhaled deeply, quelling the surge of indignation defending Ruqayyah's honor. She straightened her back and leveled a sharp, commanding gaze at the bustling school gate—the same look she had once used to silence gossiping palace servants.
"Thank you, Bela," Aisha said evenly, her eyes fixed on the crowded entrance. "I hope their prayers truly reach the heavens, and not just the mosque roof."
Bela blinked at the sudden coldness in her friend's tone but only nodded quietly.
This time, Aisha binti Al-Fadl was a student of the pesantren, and she would meet the twenty-first century on her own terms. "Let us see what drama this new age has in store," she thought, gripping her bag strap as if it were a lifeline.