The Old Woman Who Disappeared Before My Eyes

The Old Woman Who Disappeared Before My Eyes

It was a quiet Sunday morning.

The kind of morning where the world still seems half-asleep — hushed, sacred, untouched. I was walking back home from Fajr prayer. The streets were still cold with the remnants of night, the sky dipped in a soft, dim blue. Birds were only just beginning to stir, and the trees stood still like sentinels. The lane I walked was always empty at this hour.

But not that day.

That day… someone was there.

An old woman.

Dressed entirely in white — from her scarf to her long, modest dress. She stood just ahead near the corner lamp post, barely visible in the low light, holding a small cloth bundle close to her chest.

She wasn’t moving. Not pacing. Not sitting. Just standing quietly, as if waiting for something — or someone. Her stillness was not alarming, but unusual enough to catch my attention.

I slowed my pace as I approached her.

> “Assalamu Alaikum, Amma,” I said softly.



She turned to me.

Her face was aged, full of fine lines, but peaceful — almost serene. But what truly caught me off guard were her eyes: they were strikingly youthful, deep and bright. Eyes that looked like they had seen everything, suffered much, and yet forgotten nothing.

She smiled.

> “Walaikum Assalam, beta. May your days be filled with light, and your nights protected.”



Her voice was barely a whisper, like wind brushing over silk. It wasn’t weak — it was gentle. There was something deeply calming about her presence.

Then, she paused. Her head tilted slightly to the side, eyes focusing on something invisible — something beyond me, just past my shoulder.

And in the second I blinked…

She was gone.

—

I don’t mean she walked away.
I don’t mean she turned a corner.

I mean — she vanished.

She was no longer there.
Not behind the pole.
Not down the street.
Not anywhere.

No footsteps. No sound. No fading silhouette.

Just… gone.

—

I stood frozen. Then I ran forward, scanning the street in both directions, heart pounding.

Silence.

The breeze stirred a leaf near my foot. The sky slowly brightened above. But there was no sign of her. The street had returned to its familiar emptiness.

Except for one thing — her dua still echoed in my ears.

> “May your nights be protected.”



—

The entire day, I couldn’t shake it off.

Was I hallucinating?
Was it a trick of the light? A figment of a tired mind?

But no — I remembered every detail. Her scarf. The delicate wrinkles of her hands. The tiny scar on her left thumb. The exact tone of her voice.

That night, I almost died.

While sleeping, a gas leak silently filled my room. The heater had malfunctioned. I was unconscious, barely aware — until I suddenly woke up, choking, seconds before it could have been too late.

I stumbled out, collapsed in the hallway gasping for air.

At the hospital, the doctor said:

> “Another minute or two, and you wouldn’t have woken up at all.”



I remembered her.

The old woman.

Her words. Her smile. Her unseen warning.

—

The next morning, I went back to that street.

Same time. Same spot.

Empty.

I asked around — neighbors, vendors, early risers.

No one had seen any woman like that.

One old shopkeeper paused thoughtfully and said:

> “There used to be a woman like that. Kind, always praying for people. Died two years ago.”



> “Do you know her name?” I asked.



> “Amma Nafeesa, we called her. No family. Lived down the alley. Passed in her sleep.”



> “Did she wear white?” I asked.



> “Always.”



—

I went to her old house. It was boarded up, abandoned.

But on the wooden door, faded and dusty, someone had written in chalk:

> “Allah keeps His friends where He wills.”



—

Since that day… I’ve never looked at strangers the same way.

I greet every elder with care.

I treasure every small blessing.

And I never doubt the unseen.

Because sometimes — a stranger’s smile is not of this world.

Sometimes — a dua comes in the form of someone who was never really there.