The Call Before Dawn

The phone rang at 4:17 a.m.

In the dim glow of her apartment, Mariam stirred awake.

Her first instinct was fear — calls at that hour rarely brought good news.

She reached for her phone, her heart beating faster when she saw the name.

“Farhan — Brother.”

It had been five years since they last spoke.

Five years of silence that began with one argument — cruel words about their late father’s inheritance, pride, and years of bottled hurt.

After that night, they’d become strangers in the same city.

Every Eid, every family gathering, every call from relatives reminded her of that missing piece — a brother she’d once called her best friend.

Now, his name glowed on her screen.

She hesitated.

Her thumb hovered.

Then she answered.

“Farhan?”

A long pause. Then a shaky breath.

“Mariam… I didn’t know who else to call.”

His voice cracked, softer, older than she remembered.

“What happened?” she asked, sitting up.

“It’s Ma. She’s… she’s in the hospital.”

Within twenty minutes, Mariam was dressed and out the door.

The streets were empty — only the orange streetlights and the distant hum of dawn buses filled the silence.

At the hospital, she found him pacing the hallway, his hair disheveled, eyes tired.

For a moment, neither knew what to say.

Five years of words unsaid hung between them — heavy, fragile.

She broke the silence first.

“How is she?”

He swallowed. “Stable. The doctor said she fainted because of stress. They’re keeping her overnight.”

Mariam nodded, relief softening her shoulders.

Then, almost involuntarily, she said, “She must have been worrying about us.”

He looked at her — and for the first time in years, their eyes met without anger.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “She used to pray every night that we’d talk again.”

Mariam’s throat tightened. “So did I.”

They sat in the waiting room for hours, barely speaking.

But the silence was different now — less sharp, more tired, like a wound beginning to close.

Around 6:00 a.m., Farhan returned from the vending machine with two cups of tea.

He handed one to her, and she couldn’t help but smile faintly.

“Still too much sugar?” she asked.

He grinned weakly. “I remember.”

They sat there, sipping in silence as the city outside woke.

After a while, Mariam said softly, “You know, I kept waiting for you to call.”

He nodded. “So did I.”

“I guess we both waited too long.”

He looked at her, guilt and affection mixing in his eyes. “I’m sorry, Mariam. I was stupid. I thought peace meant winning.”

She smiled sadly. “Peace doesn’t mean winning, Farhan. It means not losing each other.”

When their mother woke later that morning, she smiled weakly to see both her children beside her bed.

“Alhamdulillah,” she whispered, tears welling up. “My dua has been answered.”

They both held her hands — one on each side — and in that quiet hospital room, the years of silence melted away.

It wasn’t dramatic.

No shouting, no speeches.

Just peace — slow, soft, and real.

Over the next few weeks, Mariam and Farhan began seeing each other again — lunch on Fridays, helping with groceries, sometimes just short messages that said “I made tea. You want some?”

Their mother would watch them from her chair, smiling as though she had seen a miracle.

One evening, Mariam asked him, “What made you call me that night?”

Farhan looked at her thoughtfully. “I woke up at 4 a.m. with a feeling I couldn’t explain. Something told me to make peace before I lost the chance.”

Mariam nodded. “Maybe that was Abba’s dua. Or Ma’s.”

He smiled. “Or maybe just a reminder that peace doesn’t wait until we’re ready.”

Months later, their mother recovered completely.

And every dawn, when the sky turned pale blue, Mariam would think of that phone call — that fragile, unexpected moment when forgiveness entered quietly, like light through a half-open window.

She often told people now:

“Sometimes peace doesn’t come with a plan.

It just comes with courage — the courage to say hello first.”