After arriving here, it was the first time she had ever seen a mosque.
Her heart involuntarily drifted back to her homeland, where five times a day, the call to prayer would echo through the air.
At prayer time, every direction would be filled with the sound of "Allahu Akbar," and the mosques would come alive with congregational prayers, each row forming in quiet, beautiful order.
Today, the same scene unfolded before her eyes.
People were arriving quietly. Some were performing ablution, while others sat on the carpet, lost in the remembrance of Allah. There was something peaceful about the way everyone seemed to leave the outside world behind as soon as they stepped inside.
But one thing, in particular, touched Zoya deeply.
For the women, a corner of the mosque had been fully arranged, allowing them to pray in peace and serenity.
It was a little crowded today because it was Friday, and many Muslim women had come for Jummah prayers.
Among them were sweet little girls and boys, toddling around with small, uncertain steps. Some stayed close to their mothers, while others moved around curiously before being called back. The girls' heads were covered with lovely scarves, and their innocent faces seemed to carry a quiet light.
Zoya's eyes grew moist.
I imagine you here…
Her gaze remained on the children.
One day, you'll be here too, among such children, draped in a beautiful scarf. You'll run this way and that, and then, at the sound of Allahu Akbar, you'll prostrate before Allah with everyone.
Her heart tightened.
Your innocent prostrations, your soft, sincere hands, your prayers will be accepted instantly.
A faint smile appeared through the tears in her eyes.
She whispered, almost to herself,
"Then I will ask you quietly, pray for me too, because you will be Allah's precious golden gift."
The voice was hers alone, and the secret belonged only to her and Allah.
She was certain that whatever Allah bestowed upon her would come exactly as He willed.
Zoya remained at the entrance, still watching the children, when her mind wandered back to her mother's words:
"When someone sees Mecca for the first time, the dua made at that moment is accepted."
She lowered her eyes and murmured silently,
"My destiny has not yet brought me to Mecca… But this mosque is also Your home, dear Allah. Here, everyone prostrates before You. Today, I, too, wish to offer a prayer."
She took a quiet breath and stepped inside.
The soft carpet touched her feet as she walked toward the women's section. She found a place among the other women and settled down.
For a few moments, she simply sat there.
She was not alone. Others, too, had come seeking Allah. Some were quietly remembering Him, while others sat with lowered heads, silently speaking to Him, just as she was.
The peacefulness of the mosque seemed to separate everyone from the outside world. It felt as though they were all in another realm—a world where the noise of life had been left far behind and only serenity remained.
Closing her eyes, Zoya whispered her prayer:
اللَّهُمَّ اهْدِهِ وَاغْفِرْ لَهُ وَارْحَمْهُ وَاجْعَلِ الإِيمَانَ فِي قَلْبِهِ نُورًا وَهُدًى
Allāhumma ihdihi waghfir lahu warḥamhu waj'alil-īmāna fī qalbihi nūran wa hudā.
"O Allah, guide him, forgive him, have mercy on him, and place the light of faith and guidance in his heart."
After her prayer, she remained silent for a while, simply absorbing the stillness around her.
She had asked Allah for many things before, but sitting there today, inside a mosque so far from home, her dua felt different.
It felt more personal.
More vulnerable.
As though she had brought something hidden from deep inside her heart and placed it directly before Allah.
She lowered her hands and took another slow breath.
For a moment, she forgot everything outside those walls.
Then, little by little, the atmosphere of the mosque changed.
People began settling into their places. Conversations grew quieter. The women adjusted their scarves and prepared themselves for the Jummah sermon.
The Imam stepped forward.
Zoya lifted her eyes.
Before beginning, he recited the ta'awwuz:
"أَعُوذُ بِاللَّهِ مِنَ الشَّيْطَانِ الرَّجِيمِ"
"I seek refuge in Allah from Satan, the accursed."
For an instant, even the air seemed still.
Zoya drew a deep breath.
To others, these were familiar words, but something about hearing them here touched a different part of her heart. She thought about all the doubts, restlessness, fears, and thoughts that sometimes disturbed her.
She lowered her gaze.
Allah… protect my heart from everything that takes me away from You.
Then the Imam's voice rose again:
"بِسْمِ اللّٰهِ الرَّحْمٰنِ الرَّحِيمِ"
"In the name of Allah, the Most Gracious, the Most Merciful."
Zoya listened quietly.
For her, it was not merely the beginning of a Surah. It reminded her of the importance of beginning every act with Allah's name, seeking His help and permission before taking even a single step.
For a moment, she felt as though a new chapter of her own life was beginning beneath the name of Allah.
The Imam continued with the sermon, but Zoya remained deeply absorbed in the moment.
She did not know which Surah he would recite first, but somewhere in her heart, she hoped it would be Al-Fātiḥah.
It contained everything she needed: praise, gratitude, worship, guidance, and supplication.
She began reciting it silently in her heart, remembering the meanings she had once learned.
Then the Imam began aloud:
1 — الْحَمْدُ لِلَّهِ رَبِّ الْعَالَمِينَ
(Al-ḥamdu lillāhi Rabbil 'ālamīn)
Zoya glanced around.
She was seated among the other women, all listening quietly.
A strange feeling passed through her.
She had only been thinking about Al-Fātiḥah, and the Imam had begun with it.
Her heart fluttered.
Allah, my One, my incomparable Allah… You know the secrets of hearts. You know what we think, even the things we never say aloud. Indeed, You are capable of everything.
Then another thought came to her.
You heard me.
She remained still.
It was a little unsettling, yet at the same time, deeply comforting.
She had only thought of Al-Fātiḥah, and somehow, the Imam had begun reciting it at that very moment.
Zoya felt a closeness to Allah that she had never experienced in quite the same way before.
For the mostly local congregation, the Imam translated the verse into Korean.
Zoya closed her eyes and listened.
As the Korean explanation reached her, she remembered Haya—a girl who held a very special place in her heart, someone she would call her soulmate.
The memory brought back Haya's voice.
الْحَمْدُ لِلَّهِ
By using the independent noun Hamd, Allah makes His praise completely independent of any doer. His praise does not depend upon someone speaking it; it exists as a constant, eternal reality.
The word Hamd carries both meanings at once:
praise—admiring perfection and excellence,
and gratitude—thanking for a blessing or favor.
Then came:
رَبِّ الْعَالَمِينَ
This establishes Allah as the true Master, Provider, Sustainer, and Nurturer of all worlds, encompassing every system of existence.
A wave of peace and awe washed over Zoya.
The words she had once heard from Haya were now reaching her heart in a completely different way.
She sat quietly, listening.
And somewhere inside her, she felt as though she was sitting beside Haya again.
2 — الرَّحْمَٰنِ الرَّحِيمِ
(Ar-Raḥmānir-Raḥīm)
As the Imam recited the verse and explained it in Korean, Zoya tried to remember what Haya had once taught her.
What tafseer had Haya shared about this verse? Why can't I remember it, when she explained it so deeply, with so many examples?
She stayed quiet for a moment, trying to bring the memory back.
Then suddenly, something clicked in her mind.
She remembered the day she had asked Haya:
"Haya, if we look at it, both names of Allah seem to mean mercy. Ar-Raḥmān is mercy, and Ar-Raḥīm is also mercy. Why are there two names? Wouldn't one be enough?"
Haya had smiled gently at her question.
"Come, I'll explain it with an example," she had said.
They had been sitting on the grassy plot in front of their department, enjoying the weak winter sun. Students were scattered around them, some reading and others talking quietly with their friends.
Haya leaned a little closer so Zoya could hear her clearly.
"Imagine your son has gone to school. It's almost time for him to return. You've already planned everything in your mind. He'll come home, I'll give him food, and then I'll help him with his homework."
She paused.
"But he doesn't come home. You keep waiting."
Haya looked at Zoya with a warm smile.
"Now tell me, a little while ago, you were worried about his homework. What are you worried about now?"
"Obviously… now I'm worried about my son himself," Zoya answered without hesitation.
"And what will you pray to Allah for at that moment?" Haya asked gently.
"I will pray that he returns home safely," Zoya replied.
Haya nodded.
"Now imagine you say, 'My Raḥmān Lord, please bring my son home safely,' and your prayer is accepted. Your son returns home safely."
Zoya listened carefully.
Haya continued,
"That is my point."
She looked at Zoya for a moment before explaining further.
"Zoya, this mercy that responds to your prayer in your immediate situation—that is one way to understand Ar-Raḥmān: the One whose mercy reaches us here and now."
Zoya remained quiet, taking in every word.
"Whereas Ar-Raḥīm means the One whose mercy continues. His mercy is with us in this world, and it continues into the Hereafter. It never comes to an end."
Haya smiled.
"Do you understand now?"
Zoya nodded softly.
"So, through Ar-Raḥmān, Allah's mercy reaches us in our immediate, day-to-day matters."
She thought for a moment.
"And through Ar-Raḥīm, His mercy has always been upon us—and will remain forever."
Haya smiled and nodded.
As they lifted their heads, Zoya noticed that a few students nearby had been listening to their conversation.
They were smiling too, as though they had understood something they hadn't considered before—the beauty behind Ar-Raḥmān and Ar-Raḥīm.
A quiet happiness settled in Zoya's chest.
The weak winter sun seemed a little warmer now, and the breeze moving through the grass felt softer against her face.
The meaning of Allah's mercy had taken root firmly in her heart.
Back in the mosque, Zoya opened her eyes for a moment.
The Imam was still explaining the verse in Korean.
She listened quietly.
Yet Haya's words remained with her.
Not as something she had simply memorized…
but as something she had carried with her all these years.
3 — "مَالِكِ يَوْمِ الدِّينِ"
"Master of the Day of Judgment."
The One who knows every deed, every intention, and everything hidden within the heart.
Zoya's heart fluttered as the meaning settled inside her.
She looked around.
Heads were bowed. Eyes were lowered. Everyone sat quietly, listening to the Imam.
The mosque's tall walls seemed to surround her with a sense of safety, while the faint sound of water from the ablution area reached her from somewhere nearby.
Everything I think and do is seen by Him… yet I am not alone.
A strange warmth spread through her chest.
The Imam's voice continued:
4 — "إِيَّاكَ نَعْبُدُ وَإِيَّاكَ نَسْتَعِينُ"
"You alone we worship, and You alone we ask for help."
Zoya repeated the words silently.
They felt different now.
Not simply words she had heard countless times, but a reminder of where she could place every worry she carried.
She imagined taking every fear, every small hope, every unanswered question in her heart and leaving them with Allah.
For a moment, she felt lighter.
The faint scent of incense lingered in the air, mixing with the clean smell of the mosque and the warmth of sunlight falling through the windows.
Then the Imam recited:
5 — "اهْدِنَا الصِّرَاطَ الْمُسْتَقِيمَ"
"Guide us to the straight path."
Zoya's heart paused at the verse.
Guide us.
She repeated the words inside herself.
It was such a simple request.
Yet perhaps it was one of the greatest things a person could ask Allah for.
Her fingers moved lightly over the soft carpet.
And then, just as before, another memory surfaced.
"Zoya, do you pray?"
It was Haya's voice.
The memory took her back to a conversation she had once been too embarrassed to forget.
At the time, the question had made heat rise to her cheeks. She had expected judgment, perhaps even scolding.
But Haya's reaction had been completely different.
"It's okay. Start praying now," Haya had said gently.
Zoya had lowered her gaze.
"I can't wake up early. I'm always late, and by the time I wake up, the prayer time has ended."
She had hesitated before admitting,
"When I miss Fajr, I don't pray the rest either."
Haya had smiled.
"It's okay. When you wake up in the morning, pray then. One day you'll be late, two days you'll be late—but one day, you'll pray Fajr on time."
Zoya had looked at her in surprise.
"Won't Allah be angry if I pray late?"
Haya shook her head gently.
"You're trying, aren't you? You're making an effort. You will try to wake up on time, and Allah knows your intention and your effort."
Then Haya had looked at her thoughtfully.
"Should I tell you about a verse?"
Zoya had nodded.
"It is Surah Al-Fātiḥah, verse five. We ask Allah to guide us to the straight path."
Haya paused.
"Do you know what الصِّرَاطَ—Ṣirāṭ—is?"
Zoya had shaken her head.
"Ṣirāṭ is a very wide path," Haya explained with a smile.
"On this path, it doesn't matter how many good deeds you have or how many sins you committed before. What matters is that you're walking on it."
Zoya had listened carefully.
"Just walking—moving forward—is a sign that Allah has chosen you."
Haya's voice had softened.
"That's why, Zoya, keep walking. Keep trying."
She had smiled.
"Allah will guide you."
Back in the mosque, Zoya's fingers slowly traced the patterns on the carpet.
She remembered those words as clearly as if Haya were sitting beside her.
For three days, Zoya had woken late and prayed afterward.
But on the fourth day, her eyes had opened exactly when the adhan began.
She had prayed, and afterward, with tears filling her eyes, she had raised her hands in dua.
"Allah… Haya said that when my eyes opened for Fajr, it meant You had chosen me."
Her voice had trembled.
"Have You chosen me for that wide path too? Even though I'm still learning… still trying?"
The memory faded.
The Imam continued:
6 — "صِرَاطَ الَّذِينَ أَنْعَمْتَ عَلَيْهِمْ"
"The path of those You have favored."
Zoya listened quietly.
She thought about the people who walked through life holding firmly to Allah's guidance. People who stumbled, made mistakes, fell, and still found their way back.
She wanted to be among them.
She wanted to keep walking.
The sunlight coming through the mosque windows fell softly across the carpet.
For a moment, everything around her seemed connected—the quiet movement of scarves, the gentle breathing of the women beside her, the distant sound of footsteps.
Then came the final verse:
7 — "غَيْرِ الْمَغْضُوبِ عَلَيْهِمْ وَلَا الضَّالِّينَ"
"Not the path of those who earned Your anger, nor of those who went astray."
A subtle shiver passed through Zoya.
The thought of losing her way frightened her.
But instead of leaving her afraid, the verse gave her another reason to hold on—to keep asking Allah for guidance, to keep trying, and to keep returning whenever she stumbled.
Slowly, she opened her eyes.
Sunlight touched her face.
The woman beside her remained quietly attentive, her devotion gentle and sincere.
Zoya's lips curved into a faint smile.
Her heart felt lighter.
She still had questions.
She was still learning.
She was still trying.
But for the first time, that no longer frightened her.
Perhaps the most important thing was simply to keep walking.
And to keep asking Allah to guide her.
After the sermon, everyone stood up for salah.
The congregation rose together, row upon row, filling the mosque with quiet anticipation.
Feet settled firmly on the carpet. Bodies straightened, shoulders relaxed but attentive.
This was qiyām—the standing position of prayer.
But to Zoya, it felt like more than a posture.
It was a declaration of presence, a silent acknowledgment that she was standing before the One who had brought them all there.
No one was higher.
No one was lower.
Children, elders, men, women—each heart and each soul stood before Allah.
Everyone was equal.
The only greatness belonged to Allah.
The rows of people were uniform, humble, and connected.
Zoya pressed her feet gently into the carpet, feeling the soft fibers beneath them.
She inhaled slowly.
Standing there, she felt small, yet strangely secure—a single heartbeat among many, yet completely seen.
Her eyes wandered for a moment.
A tiny Korean girl stood beside her in a crisp white scarf. She was so small that the scarf seemed almost too large for her, and she stood shyly beside the woman she assumed was her mother.
Perhaps her mother had brought her along to let her experience the prayer.
Zoya looked at her for another moment.
So small… so innocent.
A tender thought came to her.
One day, you and I will stand here together in prayer.
Warmth spread quietly through her chest.
Then the Imam's voice rang through the mosque.
"Allahu Akbar."
The women folded their hands gently over their chests, the right hand resting over the left.
In the rows ahead, the men folded their hands lower, around the abdomen. The difference was subtle, but everything about the movement felt natural and orderly.
No one rushed.
Everyone followed the Imam.
Then his voice rose again.
"Allāhu Akbar!"
The sound moved through the mosque like a wave.
The rows shifted together as everyone bent forward into rukū', their backs aligned and their hands resting gently on their knees.
Zoya followed.
As she bowed, she felt something inside her surrender.
There were no conversations now.
No distractions.
Only the sound of the Imam's voice and the quiet movement of hundreds of people worshipping together.
Her heart lifted with a simple realization:
Here, everyone is equal.
Only Allah is great.
Only Allah is above.
And somehow, that equality brought her a closeness she had never known before.
They straightened from rukū'.
Zoya slowly lifted herself with the congregation and felt her back align again.
For some reason, she felt lighter.
As though a small part of the weight she had been carrying had remained on the carpet when she rose.
The rows around her were silent.
Everyone moved together, yet each person seemed completely alone in their connection with Allah.
Then came the first sujūd.
Zoya lowered herself slowly.
Her knees touched the carpet first, followed by her hands.
Then her forehead touched the soft fibers beneath her.
The moment it did, something inside her changed.
The mosque disappeared.
The people disappeared.
Even time seemed to disappear.
There was only her and Allah.
Her heart whispered what her lips could not.
She felt no need to explain herself.
No need to hide anything.
She simply remained there, humbled and surrendered.
Then she sat up briefly between the two prostrations, resting on her heels with her hands on her thighs.
It was only a short pause.
But it gave her a moment to breathe, to gather herself, and to remember Allah.
Then she lowered herself again.
The second sujūd.
Her forehead touched the carpet once more.
This time, the feeling was even deeper.
It was as though every worry she had carried into the mosque had slowly dissolved beneath her.
She was aware of the little girl beside her and of the rows surrounding them, but the closeness she felt belonged only to her and Allah.
When she finally lifted her head, her heart felt strangely light.
Calm.
Peaceful.
Held.
Every movement—the standing, the bowing, the prostration—had left something behind inside her.
She understood now that the peace she felt was not simply in the words she had recited.
It was in the presence she had felt while saying them.
Right there.
Right then.
In that moment.
After completing the salah, Zoya lifted her hands, palms open, her heart soft.
The Imam's voice rose in Korean, guiding the congregation in dua. She didn't understand every word, but she could feel the warmth of everyone's hearts turning toward Allah together.
She whispered, "Ameen," with the others.
Then, quietly, she repeated her own dua—the one she always asked for.
Guidance.
Protection.
Love.
And mercy for him.
Her eyes remained closed as she continued praying silently.
A gentle warmth spread through her chest.
For a moment, she thought about everything she had asked Allah for—not only today, but all the days before this one.
She whispered "Ameen" again, then softly ran her hands over her face.
The mosque was still peaceful around her.
People were slowly beginning to move, but Zoya remained seated for a little longer.
She didn't feel the need to hurry.
Something inside her had become quiet.
She had entered the mosque carrying so many thoughts, questions, and emotions.
Now, she felt as though she had left some of them there.
She lowered her hands into her lap and took a slow breath.
Perhaps this was what she had been searching for without even realizing it.
Not an answer to every question.
Not a solution to everything.
Just the feeling that someone was listening.
That her words had reached Him.
Zoya looked down at the carpet.
Her lips curved into a faint smile.
She realized that her prayer had not been just a prayer.
It had been a conversation with Allah.
And somehow, in the quietest way, her heart knew that she had been heard.
__________________________________
The evening air was cool, calm, and comforting.
Minji and Jeon J walked slowly through the garden, letting the soft breeze brush against their faces. The sky was painted in warm shades of gold as the sun slowly sank toward the horizon.
"You're still upset about what happened with Bamson, aren't you?" Minji asked gently. "I was going to bring him to you myself."
She paused for a moment before continuing, carefully choosing her words.
"But when we checked social media, there was no update. No post saying Bamson was missing. There wasn't even any update from you—just the last one saying you were out of the country for a concert. I already knew that, so I became more careful."
Minji continued, trying to make him understand why she had handled things the way she did.
"We brought Bamson safely to the dorm, but taking him out again felt risky. I wasn't worried about myself. I could manage everything. But Hana, Ruhi, Sophia… and Zoya—I was worried about them."
Among all of them, Zoya had been the most frightened.
Jeon J lifted an eyebrow.
"She?"
"She kept saying we should inform the police," Minji said. "Again and again, she said it. But when I saw Bamson after such a long time… I couldn't make myself let him go. I thought I'd keep him with me until you arrived. When you came back, I would hand him over to you myself."
She lowered her voice.
"I didn't know you were in Busan. If I had known, I would've brought Bamson to you right away."
Jeon J stopped walking.
He lifted his eyes toward the sky, where the last light of the evening sun was fading.
"I came after hearing the news that Bamson was missing," he said quietly.
Then something suddenly occurred to him.
"Wait."
He turned toward Minji and stepped closer.
"How did you know I was in Busan?"
Minji was just about to answer when Jinhun's voice interrupted them.
"If you two are done talking, then join us," Jinhun called as he approached, a serious expression on his face. "Otherwise, we're leaving."
"Why?" Minji asked. "Did you get bored?"
"Not bored," Jinhun replied, dropping himself into a nearby chair. "Just tired. What kind of friends do you have?"
He sighed.
"For the past two hours, those three have been taking endless videos and pictures with us. Their phones are probably full by now, and somehow, their hearts still aren't satisfied. I'm not going back inside."
Then, as if he had suddenly remembered something, he looked up.
"Speaking of friends… where's that friend of yours? The one who went missing yesterday at DMC?"
At Jinhun's question, Jeon J looked at Minji.
"Oh—Zoya," Minji said. "She went to the mosque."
Jinhun straightened in his chair.
"A mosque?"
He blinked.
"Oh… to explore?"
He looked at Minji again.
"You didn't go with her? So you probably canceled today's plan because of us."
He kept asking and answering his own questions before Minji could even respond.
"No," Minji said. "We'll go tomorrow, or maybe in a few days, to explore. But today she went for Friday salah. Friday is a blessed day for her, so that's why she went today."
She added calmly,
"I told her to call me when she's ready to come back. I'll book her a ride. She doesn't know the routes, and she doesn't understand the language either."
Jinhun stared at Minji, still trying to process what he had just heard.
Then his eyes suddenly widened.
"Wait…"
He looked at her.
"Zoya is Muslim?"
"Yes," Minji replied.
Jinhun's expression changed immediately.
"Oh…"
He lowered his gaze for a moment.
"She must have felt so bad. Yesterday, we drank in front of her."
There was a trace of guilt in his voice.
"But how will she call?"
He suddenly looked worried.
"Her phone was kept inside. When she was leaving, and we were coming in, she tried to put it into her bag in a hurry. It slipped from her hand and fell onto the grass. She didn't even notice."
He paused.
"But Jeon J saw it."
The memory flashed clearly in Jeon J's mind.
He had picked up the phone and placed it carefully on the central table inside without saying a word.
As Jinhun explained this to Minji, his eyes shifted toward Jeon J.
He gave him a sharp look—one filled with accusation and disbelief.
What exactly is going on in your mind?
Jeon J understood the meaning instantly.
He looked away, pretending to scan the garden, as if the trees and plants had suddenly become very interesting.
Minji's expression darkened with worry.
"But now… how will she come back?" she whispered.
"She doesn't know anything."
She took a breath, already making up her mind.
"Wait here. I'll go get her. It's getting late. She'll start panicking."
"Where are you going?" Jeon J asked.
"To the Central Mosque," Minji replied without hesitation.
"I'll check there. I'm sure she's still there. I'll bring her back."
"I'll come with you," Jinhun said at once.
"No," Jeon J interrupted immediately, his voice firm.
"You go inside. Stay with Minji's friends. Make reels with them—don't hurt their feelings. I'll go with Minji."
Jinhun turned slowly and studied Jeon J's face.
"What's really going on in your head?" he asked quietly.
"You saw her there yesterday too, didn't you? Yet you sent Minji and the others away with Jae."
He paused, his eyes narrowing.
"And today, her phone fell right in front of you. You didn't say a word. You picked it up. And now…"
He stopped, leaving the accusation hanging between them.
His eyes remained fixed on Jeon J.
By then, Minji had already stepped outside and was seated in her car—the car she used whenever she came home during the holidays.
Jeon J smirked faintly and leaned closer to Jinhun.
"Don't strain your brain so much, my old darling Hyung," he teased lightly.
Then he turned and walked out.
"I'll drive," Jeon J said.
Minji slid into the front seat.
As the engine started, she stared ahead, silently hoping—
Please let Zoya still be there.
To be continued...
Regards,
ZK💌