Epilogue A — Mercy Returns
Epilogue A — Mercy Returns
Three weeks after Makkah, Singapore returned Aleem to its usual rhythms.
The MRT stations with their fluorescent patience.
The office pantry conversations that never lasted long.
The endless stream of messages, meetings, builds, fixes, deployments—problems that had clear reasons and cleaner endings than people.
Aleem returned to work at AMD as if he had never left.
He answered emails.
He reviewed pull requests.
He spoke in meetings with steady voice.
He laughed at Malek’s jokes when Malek tried to keep him human.
From the outside, nothing changed.
But Aleem knew.
He knew that something in him had loosened.
The old rule still existed in the corners of his mind—they will turn out the same—but it no longer sounded like truth.
It sounded like a fear he could recognise.
He did not fight it loudly.
He simply refused to obey it.
Some nights, after Isha, Aleem would sit quietly on his bed and stare at the city lights through his window.
He would think about Makkah.
Not with longing.
With gratitude.
And when Almahirah crossed his mind, she arrived differently now.
Not as a villain.
Not as a temptation.
As a person he had forgiven.
A person he had released.
He did not text her.
He did not search for her.
He did not ask Malek to check.
He kept his hands clean.
Because he had promised Allah—and himself—that he would not return to waiting.
On a Tuesday evening, after a long day of debugging an issue that refused to behave, Aleem walked into the hawker centre near his block and ordered something simple.
Rice.
Soup.
A meal that did not require decision fatigue.
He sat alone, elbows on the table, the hum of other people’s lives surrounding him.
Then his phone vibrated.
A notification.
A message.
Not from Malek.
Not from work.
A number he had not saved.
The profile picture was a plain sky.
The name read:
Almahirah
Aleem’s chest tightened.
Not with panic.
With a strange stillness.
His thumb hovered.
He did not open it immediately.
He took a slow breath first.
He reminded himself: opening a message was not a promise.
Hope did not mean surrendering dignity.
He tapped.
The message was not long.
But it carried the weight of a door opening carefully.
Assalamualaikum Aleem. I hope you are well. I took some time after Umrah to settle things properly. I ended it completely. I’m sorry it took me so long to learn dignity. I don’t expect anything from you. I just… wanted to say thank you for being kind when you didn’t have to. If you are willing, I would like to speak, just once, properly. If not, I understand.
Aleem stared at the words.
The hawker centre noise faded into a distant hum.
He felt something shift in his chest.
Not a rush.
Not a surge.
A careful quiet.
She had not asked him to wait.
She had not offered uncertainty.
She had not pulled him into limbo.
She had ended it.
Properly.
And she had not demanded a reward.
Aleem’s throat tightened.
He thought of the corridor in Makkah.
Her trembling hands.
Her apology.
The moment she pressed send on her final message.
He remembered the way she had said:
I know.
When he told her he would not be second choice again.
Aleem stared at the screen.
Then he looked down at his hands.
They were steady.
He was steady.
That was the difference.
He was not the younger man who would have replied too quickly out of hunger.
He was not the older man who would have rejected out of fear.
He was someone in between.
A man who could choose cleanly.
He typed.
He deleted.
Typed again.
This time, he did not chase poetry.
He chose clarity.
Waalaikumsalam. Thank you for telling me. I respect that you ended it properly. We can talk. Not to return to the past, but to speak as adults. When are you free?
He stared at the message.
His thumb hovered.
Then he pressed send.
They met on a Sunday afternoon.
Not in a fancy place.
Not in a place designed for romance.
A quiet café in the east, where the air smelled like coffee beans and baked bread.
Aleem arrived early.
He chose a table near the window.
He sat with his hands folded, calm on the outside, alert on the inside.
He watched people pass by.
He reminded himself: this was not a reunion.
This was a conversation.
A beginning only if it stayed clean.
When Almahirah entered, Aleem recognised her immediately.
Not because she looked exactly the same.
Because something about her presence was familiar.
She wore modest clothes, hair covered, her face calm but slightly nervous.
Her eyes found his.
She walked toward the table slowly, as if approaching something sacred.
“Aleem,” she said.
Her voice held no performance.
No flirtation.
Just honesty.
“Almahirah,” Aleem replied.
They sat.
For a moment, silence hovered.
Not awkward.
Heavy with history.
But history did not speak first.
Almahirah did.
“I’m sorry,” she said again.
Not dramatic.
Just a fact.
“I know you forgave me in Makkah,” she continued softly. “But forgiveness is not the same as repair. And I… I want to repair what I can.”
Aleem swallowed.
He had expected himself to feel triumphant hearing her say it again.
Instead, he felt humility.
Because he knew what it meant to regret.
“I appreciate the apology,” Aleem said quietly. “And I appreciate you ending it properly.”
Almahirah nodded, her eyes lowered briefly.
“It was hard,” she admitted. “But it was harder to realise I was still living the same pattern. Keeping someone waiting. Keeping myself waiting. I was… tired.”
Aleem nodded.
He did not rescue.
He did not soften into availability.
He listened.
Then he spoke, careful.
“I need to say something too,” Aleem said.
Almahirah lifted her gaze.
“I built a rule because of what happened,” Aleem admitted. “And it wasn’t fair. I’m working on it. But I need to be honest—trust doesn’t return overnight.”
Almahirah nodded slowly. “I understand.”
Aleem’s chest tightened.
“And I won’t enter something uncertain,” Aleem added.
“I know,” Almahirah replied.
Her voice did not sound offended.
It sounded like someone who had finally learned dignity too.
They spoke for hours.
Not about getting back together.
About adulthood.
About work.
About parents.
About how faith felt when you were exhausted.
About how easy it was to hurt people when you were young and afraid.
Aleem noticed something as the conversation stretched.
He did not feel like he was chasing.
He did not feel like he was waiting.
He felt like he was choosing.
And that difference mattered.
When the café began to empty, Almahirah looked at him and asked softly, “Can we try again?”
Aleem’s heart tightened.
Not with fear.
With seriousness.
He did not answer quickly.
He looked at her—really looked.
Not at the girl she had been.
At the woman she was becoming.
“We can,” Aleem said finally. “But slowly. Properly. With boundaries. With family aware. With no uncertainty.”
Almahirah’s eyes filled slightly.
Not with desperation.
With relief.
“Yes,” she whispered. “Slowly is fine.”
Aleem nodded.
He felt something in his chest loosen.
Not because love had returned.
Because dignity had.
Months passed.
Not in a montage.
In small, ordinary days.
They met for meals.
They spoke on the phone after shifts and after deployments.
Aleem learned her tiredness was not weakness.
Almahirah learned his caution was not punishment.
Malek watched from the side with amused approval, making jokes only when Aleem looked too serious.
One evening, after a simple dinner with Almahirah and her mother—nothing official, just a warm meal—Aleem walked Almahirah to the MRT station.
They stood near the platform.
The train lights glowed in the distance.
Almahirah looked at him.
“Aleem,” she said softly.
“Yes?”
“I’m grateful,” she admitted. “Not because you gave me another chance. But because you gave me a clean one.”
Aleem swallowed.
He thought about Makkah.
The mountains.
The apology.
The door closing gently.
He realised—maybe mercy did not always return as romance.
Sometimes it returned as dignity.
And if romance grew from dignity, then it was not a betrayal of faith.
It was a continuation.
When the train arrived, Almahirah stepped in.
Before the doors closed, she looked back.
Aleem raised a hand slightly.
Not a dramatic wave.
Just a small acknowledgement.
The train left.
Aleem stood for a moment, then turned to walk home.
He felt quiet.
Not because his life was complete.
Because his heart was no longer guarded like a wound.
And if mercy had returned to him, it returned in the only way it could remain clean—
slowly.
properly.
with dignity.