The Merchant and the Alchemist's Gate

O Mighty Caliph and Commander of the Faithful, I am humbled to be in your splendor; a man can expect no greater blessing as long as he lives. The story I have to tell is truly strange, and if the events were not fresh in my mind, even I would think them merely a dream. But it is a warning to those who can be warned, and a lesson to those who can learn.

My name is Fuwaad ibn Abbas, and I was born here in Baghdad, City of Peace. My father was a grain merchant, but for most of my life I have traded in fine fabrics, buying silk from Damascus and linen from Egypt and scarves from Morocco, embroidered with gold. I was wealthy, but my heart was troubled; nothing I bought gave me any satisfaction, and nothing I gave away brought me any relief. But now I stand before you without a single dirham in my purse, and I am at peace.

All things come from Allah, the Exalted, the Inexpressible. But if Your Highness permits, I will begin my story on the day I walked into the market of the metalworkers. I wanted to buy a gift for a man I had done business with, and I had been told he might appreciate a tray of silver. After browsing for half an hour, I noticed that one of the largest shops in the market had a new owner. It was a prime location that must have been expensive to acquire, so I entered to see what wares were sold there.

I had never seen such a variety of goods in one place. Near the entrance there was an astrolabe equipped with seven plates inlaid with silver, a water clock that chimed the hour, and a mechanical nightingale made of brass that chirped when the wind blew. Further inside there were even more clever mechanisms. I stared at them, as fascinated as a child watching a juggler. Then an old man emerged from a door at the rear of the shop.

“Welcome to my humble establishment, my lord,” he said. “My name is Bashaarat. How may I serve you?”

“These are marvelous goods you have for sale,” I said. “I trade with people from all over the world, yet I have never seen their like. May I ask where you acquired them?”

“You are too kind, my lord,” he said. “All the items you see here were made in my own workshop, by me or by my assistants under my direction.”

I was impressed that a single man could be skilled in so many arts. I asked him about various items in his shop, and he spoke learnedly of astrology, mathematics, geomancy, and medicine. We conversed for over an hour, and I remained fascinated; my admiration for him opened like a flower at dawn. But finally, he spoke of his experiments in alchemy.

“Alchemy?” I was surprised, for he did not look like the sort of man to prey on the gullible. “You mean you can turn base metal into gold?”

“I can, my lord, but that is not the goal of alchemy.”

“What is the goal, then?”

“It is to offer a method of fabrication that is cheaper than mining. Alchemy can produce gold, but the process is arduous; by comparison, mining gold from the ground is as easy as plucking peaches from a tree.”

I smiled. “A clever answer. No one can deny you are a learned man, but I still find alchemy difficult to credit.”

Bashaarat looked at me and considered. “I have recently built something that might change your opinion. No one has seen it yet; would you like to be the first?”

“I would be honored.”

“Please, follow me.” He led me through the doorway in the rear of the shop. The next room was a workshop filled with devices whose purpose I could not guess: bars of metal wrapped with copper wire, which if straightened would have reached the horizon; a slab of granite floating on a pool of quicksilver; mirrors of geometric precision. Bashaarat walked past them without a glance.

He led me to a sturdy pedestal that stood chest-high. On top of it was a ring of black metal, roughly the width of two outstretched hands. The ring was thick, as heavy as a strong man could lift, and the metal was polished so smooth it would have served as a mirror were it not black as night. Bashaarat bade me stand so that I looked through the ring, while he stood on the opposite side.

“Please observe,” he said.

Bashaarat reached his arm through the ring, from the right side. But his arm did not emerge from the left side, facing me; instead it was as if his arm were severed at the elbow. He waved his hand up and down, and then pulled his arm back. It was whole and unharmed.

I had not expected a man of such learning to perform a conjuring trick, but it was a good one, and I applauded politely.

“Wait,” he said. He took a step back.

I waited. Then, an arm reached out from the left side of the ring, unsupported by any body. The sleeve matched Bashaarat’s robe. The hand waved up and down, and then retreated into the ring and vanished.

The first part of the trick had been good, but I had seen similar ones before; this second part was truly impressive. The pedestal and ring were too slender to conceal a person. “Marvelous!” I said.

“Thank you, but it is not a trick of dexterity. The right side of the ring precedes the left by several seconds. To pass through the ring is to cross that duration instantly.”

“I do not understand,” I said.

“Allow me to demonstrate again.” He reached his arm through the ring once more, and it vanished. He smiled and performed a pulling motion, as if tugging on a rope. Then he withdrew his arm, and opened his hand to show me a ring that I recognized.

“My ring!” I looked down at my hand; the ring was still on my finger. “You have created a duplicate.”

“No, it is your own ring. Wait.”

Again the arm appeared from the left side of the hoop. I wanted to discover the secret of the trick, so I rushed forward and grabbed the hand by the wrist. It was solid and warm, indistinguishable from a living hand. I pulled on it, and it pulled back. Then, with the dexterity of a thief, it slipped the ring from my finger, and the arm withdrew into the hoop and vanished.

“My ring is gone!” I exclaimed.

“No, my lord,” he said. “Your ring is here.” He handed me the ring he held. “Please forgive me for the little drama.”

I put the ring back on my finger. “But you already had the ring. You had it before you took it from me.”

Just then an arm emerged from the right side of the hoop. “What is this?” I asked, but before it withdrew I recognized it as his arm again, by the sleeve. But he was not standing near the hoop.

“Recall what I said,” he told me. “The right side precedes the left. That was my arm, reaching in a few seconds ago.” He walked around to the left side of the hoop and reached in. His arm disappeared.

You undoubtedly understand what had happened, O Prince of Believers, but I was slow to realize the truth: an action begun on the right side of the ring culminated on the left side seconds later. “Is this magic?” I asked.

“No, my lord. I have never met a djinni, and if I did I would not trust one to do my bidding. This is a form of alchemy.”

He tried to explain it to me, speaking of looking for small pores in the skin of reality, like the holes that worms bore into wood, and how he could expand one by blowing it like glass, and then fuse it into a torus. I admit I did not understand his words, but I could not deny what I had seen. “You have created something truly astonishing,” I said.

“Thank you,” he said. “But that was only a test piece. The Gate I intend to show you is in here.” He led me through another doorway, into a room with a high ceiling. In the center of the room stood a large circular doorway, its frame made of the same polished black metal.

“The first ring was a ‘Gate of Seconds,’” he said. “This is a ‘Gate of Years.’ The two sides of the doorway are separated by a duration of twenty years.”

I did not understand him at first. I imagined him reaching his arm through the doorway and waiting twenty years for it to emerge. What purpose would that serve? I asked him, and he laughed. “That is one use for it,” he said. “But consider what would happen if you were to step through.” He stood on the right side of the Gate and gestured for me to come closer. “Look.”

I did, and saw that the carpets and pillows in the room on the other side were different from the ones I saw around me. I looked back and forth, and realized that when I looked through the Gate, I was seeing a different room from the one I stood in.

“You are seeing the room as it will appear twenty years from now,” Bashaarat said.

I blinked, as a man does when he sees a mirage in the desert. But what I saw did not change. “You mean I could step through, and go there?” I asked.

“You could. You would have traveled twenty years into the future of Baghdad. You could seek out your older self, and converse with him. Afterwards, you could step back through the Gate, and return to the present.”

I felt dizzy. “Have you done this?” I asked him. “Have you gone through?”

“I have, and so have many of my customers.”

“But you said I was the first to see this.”

“The first to see this Gate. But I owned a shop in Cairo for many years, and it was there that I built the first Gate of Years. I showed it to many people, and they made use of it.”

“What did they learn, speaking to their older selves?”

“Each learned something different. If you like, I can tell you the story of one such person.”

And Bashaarat told me the following story, which I will recount to Your Highness.

The Tale of the Fortunate Rope-Maker

There was a young man named Hassan, a maker of ropes. He stepped through the Gate of Years to see Cairo as it would be twenty years later. He marveled at the sights of the future city, feeling as if he had walked into a tapestry. It was undeniably Cairo, yet he looked upon the familiar with the eyes of a stranger.

He wandered near the old city gate, where the entertainers gathered. An astrologer called out to him. “Young man, do you wish to know your future?”

Hassan laughed. “I already know it.”

“Do you know if you will be rich?”

“I am a rope-maker; I know I will not be rich.”

“Can a rope-maker not be rich? What of Hassan al-Hubbaal? He was a rope-maker before he became the wealthiest merchant in Cairo.”

This piqued his curiosity. Hassan asked around the market, and found that everyone knew the name. He was told where the merchant lived, in the wealthy quarter of the city. Hassan went there and found the house; it was the largest on the street.

He knocked, and a servant admitted him. The house was magnificent, with a fountain in the central courtyard. The servant went to announce him, and Hassan waited. Looking at the marble and ebony around him, he felt very out of place. He was about to leave when his older self appeared.

“You have come at last!” the older man said. “I have been waiting for you.”

“Waiting for me? You knew I was coming?”

“Of course, for I visited my older self, just as you are doing now. It was long ago, and I have forgotten the exact date. Come, dine with me.”

They ate a meal of chicken stuffed with pistachios, and pastries fried in honey, and roast lamb seasoned with pomegranate juice. The older Hassan did not talk much about his life: he mentioned his businesses, but not how he had founded them; he spoke of his wife, but said she was visiting her mother, so the young man could not meet her. Instead he asked the young man to tell him of his boyish pranks, and laughed to hear the stories he had long forgotten.

Finally the young Hassan asked, “How did you change the course of your life, to become so wealthy?”

“For now, I will tell you only this: when you go to the market to buy hemp, you walk on the south side of Black Dog Alley. Do not do this; walk on the north side.”

“That is the secret to your wealth?”

“Do as I say. Now go, for you have ropes to twist. You will know when to return.”

The young Hassan returned to his own time, and followed the advice, walking on the north side of the alley even when there was no shade there. A few days later, a horse became spooked and ran wild through the alley, kicking people and knocking over a heavy jar of palm oil, which crushed one man and injured another. When the commotion subsided, Hassan prayed for the recovery of the injured and the souls of the dead, and gave thanks that he had been spared.

The next day he went through the Gate again. “Did you suffer any injury?” he asked his older self.

“No, for my older self warned me. Remember, we are the same person; whatever happens to you, happened to me.”

And so the older Hassan guided the younger. He told him not to buy eggs from his usual grocer, and Hassan avoided an illness that struck down others. He told him to buy extra hemp, and Hassan had stock to work with when the caravans were delayed and hemp was scarce. By following the advice, Hassan avoided many misfortunes. But he wondered why his older self did not tell him more: who would he marry? How would he become rich?

One day he sold all his ropes at the market, and was walking home with a heavier purse than usual. He bumped into a boy, and when he checked his purse, it was gone. He shouted and turned, searching the crowd for the thief. He saw a boy running away, and gave chase. He saw only the torn sleeve at the boy’s elbow before the boy vanished into the crowd.

For a moment Hassan was shocked that his older self had not warned him. But shock quickly turned to anger. He ran through the crowd, looking at the elbows of every boy he passed. Luck was with him, for he found the thief hiding under a fruit cart. Hassan grabbed him and shouted for the guard. Terrified of being arrested, the boy surrendered the purse and wept. Hassan looked at the boy, and his anger faded. He let the boy go.

The next time he visited his older self, Hassan asked, “Why did you not warn me about the thief?”

“You enjoyed the experience, did you not?” the older man asked.

Hassan started to deny it, but paused. “I did,” he admitted. The chase had made his blood race, the uncertainty of whether he would catch the thief. And when he saw the boy’s tears, he had felt the warmth of mercy.

“Would you have wished me to deprive you of that?”

In our youth we often question the wisdom of our elders; only as we age do we understand. So Hassan realized that while there is value in knowledge, there is also value in ignorance. “No,” he said. “It was better that I did not know.”

The older Hassan smiled. “Now, I have something important to tell you. Rent a horse, and ride to the foot of the mountains west of the city. There you will find a grove of trees, one of which has been struck by lightning. Dig under the heaviest rock you can move.”

“What will I find?”

“You will know when you find it.”

The next day Hassan rode to the mountains and found the tree. He dug under a rock, and his shovel struck something hard. It was a bronze chest, filled with gold dinars and jewelry. Hassan had never seen such wealth. He loaded the chest onto his horse and returned to Cairo.

When he met his older self again, he asked, “How did you know of the treasure?”

“I learned it from my older self,” the older Hassan said, “just as you did. As for how we first knew of it, I can only say: It is the will of Allah. Is there any other explanation for the world?”

“I swear I will use this gold wisely,” the young Hassan said.

“I made the same vow, and I renew it now,” the older man said. “This is the last time we shall speak. You are on your own now; you will find your way. Peace be upon you.”

Hassan returned home. With the gold he bought hemp in bulk, hired workers, and paid them fair wages. He married a beautiful and intelligent woman, and with her counsel he expanded his business and became a respected merchant. He was generous to the poor and lived a righteous life. And so Hassan lived in happiness until he was taken by the Destroyer of Delights and the Severer of Societies.

“That is a remarkable story,” I said. “It would tempt anyone to use the Gate.”

“Your skepticism is wise,” Bashaarat said. “Allah rewards whom He wishes, and punishes whom He wishes. The Gate does not change His judgment.”

I nodded. “So even if you avoid the misfortunes your older self suffered, you might meet with others.”

“No. I have expressed myself poorly. Using the Gate is not like drawing lots. When you draw lots, one result is independent of another. The Gate is not like that. Using the Gate is like taking a secret passage into a palace. You enter the room more quickly than if you walked through the front door, but the room is the same.”

This was unexpected. “So the future is fixed? As unchangeable as the past?”

“It is said that repentance can erase the sins of the past.”

“I have heard that said, but I have not had the opportunity to test its truth.”

“I am sorry to hear that,” Bashaarat said. “But I only mean to say: the future is the same; it is no different from the past.”

I thought about this. “So if you learn that you are dead in twenty years, there is nothing you can do?” He nodded. I was dismayed, but then a thought occurred to me. “Suppose you learn you are alive in twenty years. Then you cannot die in the interim. You could fight in battle without fear, knowing you are destined to survive.”

“It is possible,” he said. “But it is also possible that a man who relies on the future to protect him will find, upon his first use of the Gate, that his older self is already dead.”

“Ah,” I said. “So only the prudent meet their older selves?”

“Let me tell you another story, about a man who was not prudent.” And Bashaarat told me the following story.

The Tale of the Weaver Who Stole from Himself

There was a young weaver named Ajib, who lived a poor life but dreamed of luxury. Hearing the story of Hassan, Ajib immediately went through the Gate of Years to find his older self. He was certain that his older self would be wealthy, like Hassan.

Arriving in the Cairo of twenty years later, he went to the wealthy quarter and asked for Ajib ibn Taher. He was prepared with a story: if he met someone who knew the wealthy man and noticed the resemblance, he would claim to be Ajib’s son. But no one he asked had heard the name.

Finally he went to his old neighborhood. He stopped a boy and asked if he knew where Ajib lived. The boy pointed to the house Ajib had lived in twenty years ago.

“But that is where he used to live,” Ajib said. “Where does he live now?”

“If he moved yesterday, I do not know,” the boy said.

Ajib could not believe it. His older self still lived in the same house! That meant he had not become rich. Which meant his older self could not tell him how to become rich. Why was his fate so different from the lucky rope-maker’s? But he held out hope: perhaps the boy was mistaken. Ajib waited outside the house.

Eventually he saw a man come out. Ajib’s heart sank; it was his older self, dressed in coarse clothes, followed by a woman who must have been his wife. But Ajib barely looked at her; he saw only his own failure.

Curiosity compelled him to approach the house. His key still fit the lock, so he entered. The furniture was different, but still cheap and worn. Ajib was angry: after twenty years, could he not afford better pillows?

On an impulse, he went to the wooden chest where he kept his savings. He opened it, and found it full of gold dinars.

Ajib was astounded. His older self had a chest full of gold, yet lived like a pauper! A miser, he thought; a man who could not enjoy his wealth. Ajib decided that the gold should belong to someone who would use it: himself. It was not stealing, he reasoned, for he was taking it from himself. He heaved the chest onto his shoulder and carried it back through the Gate to his own time.

He deposited some of the gold with a banker, but kept a heavy purse with him. He bought fine clothes and rented a house in the wealthy quarter. He hired a cook and lived in luxury.

Then he went to seek the brother of a woman he had long admired from afar. Her name was Taheriya. Her brother was an apothecary, and she worked in his shop. The brother had refused to let her marry a weaver, but now Ajib was rich.

The brother agreed to the match, and Taheriya was overjoyed, for she had loved Ajib in secret. Ajib spared no expense for the wedding. He hired a boat on the Nile, with musicians and dancers, and gave her a pearl necklace.

They were happy for a week. Then one day Ajib came home to find his door broken open and his servants tied up. Robbers had taken Taheriya.

Ajib was frantic. The next day a stranger came to his door. “Your wife is safe,” he said. “We demand ten thousand dinars.”

“I do not have that much!” Ajib cried.

“Do not lie to me. We have seen how you spend money.”

Ajib knelt. “I was spending my savings. I swear I do not have that much.”

The robber looked at him. “Gather all you have. If I think you are holding back, your wife dies.”

Ajib went to the banker and withdrew everything. He gave it to the robber. The robber saw the despair in Ajib’s eyes and believed him. That night, Taheriya was returned.

She hugged him and said, “I did not think you would pay so much for me.”

“Without you, money means nothing,” Ajib said. And he realized it was true. “But I am sad, for I can no longer give you the life you deserve.”

“You need never give me anything,” she said.

Ajib bowed his head. “This is my punishment for a sin I committed.”

“What sin?” she asked.

“The money was not mine,” he admitted. “It was… given to me. And I spent it.”

“You mean another man paid for our wedding, and my ransom?” She was shocked. “Then am I your wife, or his?”

“You are mine,” he said. “And I swear I will repay every dinar.”

So Ajib and Taheriya moved back to his old house. They worked in the apothecary shop, and eventually took it over. They made a good living, but they lived frugally. For years, whenever Ajib put a gold coin into the chest, he would tell Taheriya it was a token of his love.

But it takes a long time to fill a chest with gold. Frugality became habit, and then necessity. Worse, the affection between them faded. They began to resent each other for the money they could not spend.

And so the years passed, and Ajib grew old. He waited for the day when his gold would be stolen from him a second time.

“A strange and tragic story,” I said.

“Indeed,” Bashaarat said. “Now, what do you think? Was Ajib’s action prudent?”

I hesitated. “I am not qualified to judge him,” I said. “He paid for his actions, as we all must.” I paused. “But I admire his honesty in telling you the story.”

“Ah, well, the young Ajib told me nothing,” Bashaarat said. “I did not see him again for twenty years. It was the older Ajib who told me, after the theft had occurred and the debt was paid.”

“And did the older Hassan return to see you?”

“No. But I had another visitor who played a part in Hassan’s story, a part Hassan himself did not know.” And Bashaarat told me the following story.

The Tale of the Wife and Her Lover

Raniya, the wife of Hassan, lived a happy life. One day she saw her husband dining with a young man who looked exactly like Hassan when she had first married him. She was shocked, but she did not interrupt them. After the young man left, she demanded Hassan tell her who he was. Hassan told her the story of the Gate.

“Did you speak of me?” she asked. “Did you know we would marry?”

“I knew the moment I saw you,” Hassan said. “But I did not tell him, for I did not want to spoil the surprise.”

Raniya did not speak to the young Hassan, but she watched him. Seeing his young face stirred a longing in her she had not felt in years. She had been a faithful wife, but here was a temptation unlike any other. She decided to follow her desire. She went through the Gate to the Cairo of twenty years ago.

She found the young Hassan and followed him. Seeing him brought back memories of their early days, and her desire grew. She rented a house and furnished it.

One day she followed him to the jewelry market. She watched him show a necklace to a jeweler. It was the necklace Hassan had given her after their wedding. She listened as the jeweler offered a thousand dinars. Hassan agreed to return the next day.

As he left, Raniya heard two men whispering. “That is the necklace from our shipment.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. That is the bastard who dug up our chest.”

“We will wait until he sells it, then take the money. And we will take more than money.”

Raniya realized the treasure Hassan had found was stolen loot. She knew she had to save him.

She returned to her own time, retrieved the necklace from her jewelry box, and went back through the Gate—but this time to the future, twenty years later. She met her older self, now an old woman. The older Raniya welcomed her, and produced the same necklace from her own box.

The three Raniyas—though the youngest did not meet the others—conspired to help Hassan.

The next day, the robbers watched Hassan at the jeweler’s. Just as the deal was being made, Raniya (the middle one) stepped up. “What a coincidence! I have a necklace exactly like that one.” She produced hers.

“Most unusual,” the jeweler said.

Then the oldest Raniya stepped up. “What is this? The man who sold me this necklace swore it was unique!” She produced the third necklace.

The jeweler was suspicious. “I must reconsider my offer.”

The robbers were furious. “The fool has copies! If we attack him now, we attract the guard.” They left in disgust.

The oldest Raniya took her necklace and left, smiling. The middle Raniya said to Hassan, “It seems we cannot sell our necklaces today. Perhaps another time.”

“May I walk with you?” Hassan asked.

She invited him to her rented house. She served him wine, and when they were flushed, she led him to bed. She blew out the candles so it was dark.

She expected the passion of her memories, but found him clumsy. She remembered their wedding night: he had been confident then. She realized he had not yet learned.

So, for the next few weeks, Raniya met Hassan in the afternoons and taught him the arts of love. She taught him how to please a woman, and in doing so, pleased herself. He learned quickly, and soon became the lover she remembered.

When it was time for her to leave, she told him she had to go. He accepted it gracefully. She sold the furniture and returned to her own time.

When the older Hassan returned from his business trip, Raniya was waiting for him. She welcomed him warmly, but she kept her secret.

Bashaarat finished speaking, and I sat in silence. “I see that story moved you,” he said.

“It did,” I admitted. “It shows that while the past cannot be changed, you can still encounter the unexpected.”

“Just so. As I said, the future and the past are the same. We cannot change them, but we can know them better.”

“I understand. Now, I wish to use the Gate. What is your fee?”

He waved his hand. “I do not sell passage. I am but a tool of Allah. If you wish to use the Gate, you may.”

I thanked him profusely. “I wish to go back to my youth, twenty years ago.”

“Ah, I am sorry. This Gate was built only a week ago. You cannot go back to a time before the Gate existed.”

I was crushed. “Then how far back can I go?”

“You can go back one week. Or, you can use the right side and go twenty years into the future. But I cannot send you to your youth here.”

“What of your Gate in Cairo?” I asked.

“That Gate still stands. My son runs the shop there.”

“Can I go to Cairo, use that Gate to go back twenty years, and then travel to Baghdad?”

“That is possible,” he said. “But I must warn you again: what has happened cannot be changed.”

“I know,” I said.

“Then I will write you a letter of introduction to my son.”

I thanked him and prepared for my journey.

O King of Time, I will tell you what I did not tell Bashaarat. Twenty years ago, I was married to a woman named Najya. She was beautiful and kind. I was a young merchant then. One day I planned to go to Basra to trade in slaves, hoping to make a quick profit. Najya forbade it, saying it was wrong to trade in human beings.

We argued. I spoke harsh words to her—words I am too ashamed to repeat. I left in anger. While I was away, a wall of a mosque collapsed, and she was injured. She died before I returned. I felt as if I had killed her.

I lived in guilt for twenty years. I hoped that if I could go back, I could save her. Perhaps the news of her death was wrong; perhaps I could rescue her and bring her to the future. I knew it was a fool’s hope, but I had to try.

The journey to Cairo was long and difficult. When I arrived, I found Bashaarat’s shop. I gave the letter to the young man there. He led me to the Gate of Years.

I stepped through the left side, and felt a cool breeze. I was in the same room, but the furniture was different. The shopkeeper followed me. “Father, a customer is here.”

A man entered—Bashaarat, but twenty years younger. “Welcome,” he said. “I am Bashaarat.”

“You do not know me?” I asked.

“No. You must have met my older self. But I am happy to serve you.”

I realized that the Bashaarat in Baghdad must have known I would come here, but he had said nothing.

I asked the date, and found I had enough time to travel back to Baghdad before Najya’s death. I thanked the young Bashaarat and left.

As I left, a woman brushed past me, carrying a box. I heard Bashaarat call her “Raniya.” I realized I was stepping into the story I had been told. But I had my own story to live.

I joined a caravan to Baghdad. But the journey was cursed. Wells were dry; soldiers fell ill; sandstorms delayed us. I watched the days slip away. Desperate, I bought a camel at a ruinous price and rode alone.

Robbers took my camel and my money, leaving me to walk. I was found by the caravan, half dead from thirst. We arrived in Baghdad too late.

I asked the guards at the gate if a mosque had collapsed. One said no. My heart leaped—had I changed history? But another said, “Yes, yesterday. In the Karkh quarter.”

I went to the mosque. It was a pile of rubble. I wandered to my old house. A young girl approached me.

“Are you Fuwaad ibn Abbas?” she asked.

“I am.”

“I am Maymuna, an assistant to the doctors. I tended to your wife, Najya. She asked me to give you a message.”

“What message?”

“She said she thought of you at the end. She said her life was short, but happy, because of you.”

I wept. “Thank you,” I said.

“The grieving owe no debt to anyone,” she said.

She left, and I realized the truth of Bashaarat’s words. The past cannot be changed, but we can understand it better. I had not saved Najya, but I had received her forgiveness.

And so, O Caliph, I stand before you. I have learned that repentance and atonement can indeed wipe away the past—not by changing events, but by changing the heart of the one who remembers.

This is my story.