The next day, I forced myself to leave the house.
Every step toward the mosque felt heavy.
My mind was a whirlwind of guilt, doubt, and fear.
I wasn't sure if I belonged there anymore.
When I entered, the familiar scent of musky prayer mats and incense hit me.
People were quietly praying.
I hesitated at the entrance.
I felt like an intruder.
And then I saw him.
An elderly man, sitting on a bench, calmly reading the Qur'an.
There was something different about him.
Something… peaceful.
I didn't know why, but I felt drawn to him.
I approached slowly.
"Excuse me…" I mumbled.
He looked up.
His eyes were kind… deep… knowing.
"Welcome, young man," he said softly.
I froze.
I didn't know what to say.
"I… I just…" I stammered. "I… I don't know how to pray properly anymore."
He smiled gently.
"Ah… you are not alone. Many are in your place."
I swallowed hard.
"I… I've done so many wrong things. I feel like I can't come back…"
He shook his head slowly.
"Do you think Allah would let you feel guilt if He didn't want you back?"
His voice was calm, but it struck me deeply.
I looked down.
Could it be… true?
"I… I don't know. I feel so far away."
He nodded, as if he understood every word I hadn't said aloud.
"Far away?" he repeated. "Allah is closer to you than your own jugular vein. Always. Even when you think you are lost, He is listening."
Something in my chest shifted.
I swallowed. "But… I feel unworthy."
He leaned closer.
"Who told you you were unworthy? You are His servant. That is enough. As long as you breathe, you can return. No sin is too big. No past too dark."
Tears filled my eyes.
"I… I want to… I want to come back. But I don't know if I can."
The old man smiled. "You don't need to know everything. Just take one step. One prayer. One dua. One intention. Allah will guide the rest."
For the first time in weeks, I felt a spark.
Not confidence. Not complete peace.
Just… hope.
The first step.
I took a deep breath.
And for the first time, I realized:
I was not alone.
And this journey… was just beginning.