A Quiet Tahajjud in Brooklyn

Brooklyn slept under a quilt of snow, streetlights glowing like softened moons. Iman woke to her mother's gentle touch for tahajjud, the prayer in the deep night. They washed in the quiet kitchen, water whispering in the sink.

They prayed on a rug by the window, breath fogging the glass. Outside, footprints vanished under fresh flakes. Inside, their whispered recitation rose and settled like calm music.

Iman did not understand every word yet, but she felt held. Mama said, "Allah is closest when the world is still." Iman liked imagining angels listening in the snowy hush.

After dua, Mama warmed milk and they watched the street. A neighbor walked a dog, surprised to see their lit window. Mama waved, and the neighbor waved back, two small kindnesses in the cold.

Iman returned to bed with tingling toes and a steady heart. School would be noisy later, but she carried the night's quiet inside her. Tahajjud in Brooklyn, she learned, is snow, whispered Quran, and a daughter learning to love the hours when only believers and stars keep watch.