It hadn’t started as a plan.
Not a project. Not a program. Just… a moment. A question. And everything after that fell into place like prayer beads sliding between fingers.
He had seen the kids gravitate toward her. Like magnets to mercy.
Everywhere she went, small footsteps followed. Little hands reached for hers. Children laughed in ways they only ever did when they felt completely, entirely safe. It tugged at something inside him.
One evening, as the sun bled gold into the broken sky, he approached her, gently brushing dust from his sleeves.
“Why do they love you so much?”9Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡxLa9XtbVFF
His voice had been curious. Warm. No accusation. Just wonder.
She looked up, startled by the question.
“I don’t think it’s love,” she had said, shaking her head softly. “I just… show up. I teach them Qur’an. Patch scraped knees. Sometimes they come to me after nightmares. I give them warm milk. That’s all.”
He’d blinked. “That’s everything.”
She didn’t respond at first. Just gave a small smile under her niqab. The kind of smile you feel, not see.
The next day, he showed up with a bag of whiteboard markers, a stack of paper, and a plan to help with math and reading. They sat side by side on cracked concrete and figured out how to teach with no supplies, no structure—just hearts full of love and hands ready to give.
And just like that… they became a team.
The courtyard was cracked.
Its tiles splintered like bones beneath the surface. The walls bore scorch marks like scars, and the ceiling—what was once a ceiling—had long since surrendered to the sky.
But still, every morning, like clockwork, the space breathed.
Not because it was perfect.
But because they were there.
Hanni, always first, sitting cross-legged on a faded green prayer mat. Her Qur’an open in her lap. Her voice—melodic, reverent, dipped in the kind of softness that makes angels pause.
Children gathered around her like petals curling toward light.
She recited gently, and they echoed with tiny voices, their tajweed rough but earnest.
“Ar-Rahmaaaaan…9Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ1z4BtOBX76
‘Allamal Quraaaaan…”
And just across the courtyard, balancing on a concrete slab he’d turned into a desk, stood Abu Bakr.
White t-shirt, a keffiyeh knotted around his neck, sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
He held a marker in one hand and a scrap of cardboard in the other—today’s lesson board.
“Alright, habibis. If you have two oranges, and I give you three more, how many do you have?”
“Five!” they shouted.
He grinned. “MashaAllah, you’re geniuses.”
A beat. Then he added:
“And if you give one of your oranges to someone who’s hungry?”
One boy frowned, thinking hard. Then:
“…Still five?”
Abu Bakr nodded, eyes warm.9Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡyZXmLZf2jU
“Exactly. You lose nothing by giving. You only gain.”
That moment—she looked up. Just for a second.
Their eyes met across the courtyard, in the middle of the laughter and dust and chalky numbers. Just one heartbeat.
Then she looked back down.
But her hands trembled slightly on the page.
She was blushing. Under her niqab, beneath layers of modesty and years of self-protection—blushing.
The kids saw everything.
They weren’t blind to the quiet glances. To how he always arrived just before her, so he could roll out her mat. Or how she’d always leave a spare date wrapped in tissue near his seat for later.
And so, one day, as they passed around sticky mango slices, one little girl leaned forward, wide-eyed, and said:
“Ustaadh Bakr… are you married?”
He chuckled. “No.”
Another boy chimed in:9Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡqTCwK5PdON
“Do you like Miss Hanni??”
That got a few giggles.
He paused. Turned his eyes to the sky like it held the patience he needed.
Then—he glanced at her. She was still teaching, pretending not to hear. But her hand had stopped mid-page.
He smiled and answered, low enough that only the kids leaning in could hear:
“Good things take time, habibti.”
One girl clapped excitedly. “LIKE CAKE!!”
He laughed. “Exactly like cake.”
And far across the courtyard, hidden behind surahs and syllables, Hanni smiled too.
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