POV Ruqayyah
Baghdad, the grand house of Wazir Al-Fadl ibn Sahl.
Ruqayyah's eyelids felt impossibly heavy, as if a thousand tons pressed upon her. The sweet scent of incense—an intoxicating mix of agarwood and rose oil—pricked at her senses, a stark contrast to the acrid smoke from the dormitory kitchen explosion she remembered. A soft, quivering voice called her name repeatedly, tinged with emotion.
"My child… Aisha…?"
She opened her eyes slowly. The ceiling above was unfamiliar—polished teak panels carved with intricate Islamic geometric patterns, a bronze lantern swaying gently in the night breeze, casting a warm amber glow across the marble walls. Her gaze fell first on a woman draped in a thin silk veil, tears streaking her face.
Salma—Aisha's mother—clutched Ruqayyah's hand with a firmness that bordered on desperation, as if letting go would make her daughter vanish again.
"My child… all praise be to Allah—you have awakened from your long slumber…"
Ruqayyah froze. Her pulse quickened, yet a strange warmth spread through her as she felt the hand gripping hers. In her own world,
A small village in Palembang. Her mother was a woman shaped by circumstance, not unkind, but accustomed to a life where affection was seldom shown; embraces were unfamiliar gestures. At home, Ruqayyah had been expected to work quickly and efficiently, her thoughts often elsewhere. At the pesantren, she had been one among countless students, quiet not from shyness, but because her mind was always turning over ideas, seldom idle.
Seeing Salma's genuine tears, Ruqayyah felt a pang of both gratitude and guilt. I am not Aisha, Sayyidati… she thought, but she could not break the woman's heart. She let her fingers respond to the grip, tracing the contours of a love she had only read about in books.
Quick, purposeful footsteps approached across the stone floor. Muhammad, Aisha's elder brother, entered, his robes immaculate and his expression filled with hope.
"Mother… is she truly awake?"
"Yes… Alhamdulillah… her eyes have opened," Salma replied, her voice breaking with joy.
Muhammad stepped closer, meeting Ruqayyah's gaze. "Aisha… can you hear me?"
Ruqayyah nodded faintly, vigilant, her eyes scanning the room. She was no weakling. In the 21st century, she had often been underestimated, dismissed by two-faced classmates for her quiet demeanor. But anyone daring to cross her would soon learn that Ruqayyah's silence was a weapon, sharp and unyielding. She was no coward; she simply refused to serve the hypocrisy of those who praised before stabbing behind your back.
Soon after, Wazir Al-Fadl ibn Sahl entered, his presence commanding reverence; the household staff lowered their heads instinctively.
"Aisha…" he said gently, his sharp eyes studying Ruqayyah's face with a mixture of relief and concern.
"Y-yes…" she finally replied, tentative but clear. Her voice was sweeter than Aisha's usual tone, yet calm and measured.
The room seemed to hold its breath. Zahra and Maryam lingered near the doorway, restraining their tears. Outside, Layla's anxious voice called repeatedly:
"Really? She's awake? Let me in! I'll scold her… for making us worry so long!"
That night, when the household had finally fallen into quiet, Ruqayyah lay beneath a smooth silk blanket. Her mind churned restlessly.
[Ding.]
Ruqayyah startled. A crystalline, mechanical voice echoed within her consciousness.
[Host detected. Name: System Nadhir.
System fully activated.]
[Identity: Aisha binti Al-Fadl.
Age: sixteen.
Appearance: striking.
Skin tone: fair.
Status: stable.]
System? Ruqayyah thought. So it's true… this is not merely a dream.
[Do not fear, Host. The system will assist you in navigating history and language, ensuring your disguise is never compromised.]
A bitter chuckle almost escaped her throat. The drama-averse pesantren girl now had a ghostly assistant in ninth-century Baghdad. How amusing.
The next morning, bright sunlight spilled through the windows. Layla, Aisha's lively cousin, was already arranging her veil in the gleaming copper mirror.
"Aisha, mind your manners today. There are visitors outside. Come with me and peek," Layla whispered, eyes sharp.
Ruqayyah responded flatly, barely lifting a brow. "Huh… why bother?"
Layla's lips quivered, suppressing a laugh. "I want to see who came! Three people, Aisha. The neighbor boy and two cousins. Their tongues are faster than Balakh horses. If they see you awake, news will reach the entire Baghdad market in an instant."
Ruqayyah merely observed from behind the drawing-room curtain. Three young men waited anxiously. Ibn Sa'id, the neighbor, handed a precious tafsir manuscript to Muhammad.
One cousin whispered mischievously, "We're really only here so we don't have to help Father in the storeroom, right?"
Ruqayyah's lips twitched slightly. So much for the idea that men in old Baghdad were always serious; in some ways, they weren't much different from mischievous santri skipping lessons.
"Unbelievable… they're ridiculous too," Ruqayyah murmured coldly to Layla.
"What did you say… ridiculous? Hah… don't speak like that. They can hear you."
"Oh… it slipped," Ruqayyah replied casually.
"Do you know they could hear an ant sneeze behind that wall?" Layla exclaimed, eyes wide. Normally, Aisha would have laughed brightly—but this version of her fixed a piercing gaze, as if reading minds.
When the guests departed, Ruqayyah noticed a shadow lingering in the backyard, among the olive trees. Sunlight glinted on the face of a young man standing alone—Faris ibn Yahya.
He stood motionless, shoulders squared, eyes sharp, fixed on Aisha's window with a look difficult to decipher.
Ruqayyah studied him unwaveringly. She knew Faris: he had debated Aisha before. Dangerous. He recognized the real Aisha's wit and spirit. Too still, and he might suspect; too lively, and she would seem false.
She resolved to remain herself. Not the playful Aisha of old, but the mysterious one—quiet, precise, each word striking like truth itself.
"All praise be to Allah… the Wazir's daughter has awakened," Faris murmured from afar, his voice carried by the evening wind to Ruqayyah's ears through System Nadhir.
This was Faris ibn Yahya, the same youth who had once challenged Aisha to debates at Bayt al-Hikmah. A pang of unease hit him, thinking that the bustling streets of Baghdad had brought the Wazir's daughter into such circumstances. After one lingering glance, he retreated into the shadows, swallowed by the olive trees as night deepened.