🌊 Whispers of the Bosphorus - Episode 7
- Sasteria
- Dec 26, 2025
- 8 min read
Updated: Jan 2
➡️ Malay Translation : Click Here
🚪✨ Episode 7 — The Door of Faith
(SasteriaWorld Original — English Version)
Chapter 7 – The Door of Faith (Rewritten)
The next week unfolded with a strange quietness, like the pause between two verses of a prayer. Andrew had returned from Edinburgh, his coat carrying the faint scent of travel—train stations, old paper, and city rain. When he entered the translation room, Leila felt the familiar warmth settle back into the air, as if a missing note in a melody had finally returned.
He placed his notebook on the table and smiled, though there was a tiredness behind it.
“Conferences,” he said, loosening his scarf, “are supposed to broaden the mind. I think they only shrink the soul.”
Leila laughed softly. “Too many people talking, not enough listening?”
“Exactly.” He poured himself a cup of the tea she had left brewing, wincing at how strong it was. “But I learned something,” he added, sitting across from her. “Something uncomfortable.”
She waited. Andrew never spoke in haste; his thoughts came like tides—slow, deliberate, but deep when they finally arrived.
“One of the panels,” he said, “was about religion and reason. The old argument. Someone claimed that faith belongs to childhood—that reason is the only mature form of understanding.” He paused, looking at his hands. “And I found myself… angry.”
“Angry?” she repeated, surprised.
“Yes,” he said quietly. “Because I realized I no longer agree. Not after working with you. Not after reading these texts and seeing how they breathe.”
Leila looked at him, unsure how to answer. The window light fell across his face, softening the lines around his eyes.
“Faith isn’t childish,” she said. “It’s a different kind of intelligence. The heart’s way of seeing what reason overlooks.”
He nodded slowly. “But what if a man has spent his whole life trusting only one kind of sight?”
“Then maybe,” she said, “he’s been standing at the door too long, afraid to knock.”
The silence that followed was gentle, not awkward. Outside, the wind carried a faint cry of gulls. Andrew leaned back in his chair, as if weighing her words against everything he had built his life upon.
“When I was a boy,” he said at last, “my mother made me kneel by my bed every night and say a prayer. I stopped when I went to university. I told myself it was superstition. But lately, when I wake in the dark, I catch myself wanting to speak to something—someone—again.”
Leila’s voice softened.
“Maybe faith is like a language you once knew. You’ve just forgotten how to speak it.”
He looked at her with quiet intensity. “And you?”
“I never forgot,” she said. “But there were years I was too tired to talk.”
He understood. The room filled again with that fragile current between them—part friendship, part reverence, part something unnamed that neither dared disturb.
After a moment, Andrew rose and walked to the window. The rain had stopped; a slice of sun broke through the clouds, glinting off the wet stone.
“Do you believe,” he asked, “that mercy can find us even when we’re not looking?”
Leila thought of her aunt’s letter, of the dream of Samir by the river, of the way faith had crept back into her life like light through a half-closed curtain.
“Yes,” she said. “Mercy finds us because it never left.”
He turned, meeting her gaze.
“That’s the most terrifying and comforting thing I’ve ever heard.”
“It’s supposed to be both,” she replied.
They returned to their work, though neither could quite focus. The essay they were translating spoke of iman—faith as a light placed in the heart, invisible to reason but undeniable to those who carried it. Andrew copied the line carefully into English, then set down his pen.
“I don’t know if I’m translating anymore,” he said. “Or confessing.”
Leila smiled faintly. “Maybe both. Translation begins with honesty.”
When the day ended, Andrew walked her to the bus stop, though it was only a few streets away. The evening sky was streaked with gold and gray, the kind of light that feels like forgiveness. They stood quietly, neither wanting to leave first.
He said finally, “You make me wish I could believe again.”
She looked at him, her scarf trembling in the wind.
“You already do,” she said. “You just haven’t said the words yet.”
The bus pulled up, sighing as its doors opened. She stepped inside, but their eyes met through the glass as the engine started. He lifted a hand, and she returned the gesture—a small, silent prayer passing between them.
That night, Leila couldn’t sleep. She lay awake listening to the rain return, whispering against the roof. The world outside was vast, but her heart felt strangely full, as if something had been quietly rewritten inside her.
She reached for her notebook and wrote:
Faith does not arrive with thunder.
It arrives as mercy knocking softly on the door of the heart.
And when you finally open, you realize it had been waiting all along.
She closed the book, whispered Alhamdulillah, and let sleep find her.
✉️ Teaser – Episode 8 – The Call to Return 🕊️🌍
Sometimes, faith does not ask us to move forward —
it asks us to go back.
A letter arrives.
A voice from home calls her name.
And suddenly, distance is no longer measured in miles,
but in love, duty, and mercy.
As Leila leaves behind what has just begun to grow,
she learns that mercy does not always stay where we find it —
but it never stops calling us home.
In this episode, love is tested by separation,
faith is shaped by loss,
and returning becomes an act of devotion.
✨ Because some journeys are not about escape…
✨ but about remembering who we are.
— Episode 8: The Call to Return 🚪💌
➡️ English : Click Here
🇲🇾 🚪✨ Episod 7 —intu Keimanan
(Terjemahan penuh dalam Bahasa Melayu)
Minggu berikutnya berlalu dalam satu ketenangan yang ganjil, seperti jeda di antara dua bait doa. Andrew telah pulang dari Edinburgh, kotnya masih membawa bau perjalanan—stesen kereta api, kertas lama, dan hujan kota. Apabila dia melangkah masuk ke bilik terjemahan, Leila merasakan kehangatan yang biasa kembali menyelubungi ruang itu, seolah-olah satu nada yang hilang dalam melodi akhirnya kembali ke tempatnya.
Andrew meletakkan buku catatannya di atas meja dan tersenyum, walaupun jelas keletihan terukir di sebalik senyuman itu.
“Persidangan,” katanya sambil melonggarkan selendangnya, “kononnya untuk meluaskan pemikiran. Tapi rasanya ia hanya mengecilkan jiwa.”
Leila ketawa kecil.
“Terlalu ramai bercakap, terlalu sedikit yang mendengar?”
“Tepat sekali.” Andrew menuangkan secawan teh yang Leila tinggalkan tadi, mengerut sedikit apabila menyedari betapa pekat rasanya. “Tapi aku belajar sesuatu,” tambahnya sambil duduk berhadapan dengannya. “Sesuatu yang tidak selesa.”
Leila menunggu. Andrew tidak pernah bercakap terburu-buru; fikirannya datang seperti pasang surut—perlahan, teratur, namun dalam apabila akhirnya tiba.
“Salah satu panel,” katanya, “membincangkan agama dan rasional. Hujah lama. Seseorang berkata bahawa iman itu milik zaman kanak-kanak—bahawa rasional adalah satu-satunya bentuk kefahaman yang matang.” Dia terhenti, memandang tangannya sendiri. “Dan aku sedar… aku marah.”
“Marah?” Leila mengulang, terkejut.
“Ya,” katanya perlahan. “Kerana aku sedar aku tidak lagi bersetuju. Bukan selepas bekerja denganmu. Bukan selepas membaca teks-teks ini dan melihat bagaimana ia seolah-olah bernyawa.”
Leila memandangnya, tidak pasti bagaimana hendak menjawab. Cahaya dari tingkap jatuh lembut ke wajah Andrew, melembutkan garis-garis keletihan di sekitar matanya.
“Iman bukan sesuatu yang kebudak-budakan,” katanya. “Ia satu jenis kecerdasan yang berbeza. Cara hati melihat apa yang sering terlepas daripada akal.”
Andrew mengangguk perlahan.
“Tapi bagaimana jika seorang lelaki telah menghabiskan seluruh hidupnya hanya mempercayai satu jenis penglihatan?”
“Mungkin,” jawab Leila, “dia telah terlalu lama berdiri di hadapan pintu, takut untuk mengetuk.”
Kesunyian selepas itu terasa lembut, tidak janggal. Di luar, angin membawa suara burung camar yang samar. Andrew bersandar di kerusinya, seolah-olah menimbang kata-kata Leila dengan segala yang telah dia bina sepanjang hidupnya.
“Ketika aku kecil,” katanya akhirnya, “ibuku akan menyuruh aku berlutut di sisi katil setiap malam dan membaca doa. Aku berhenti apabila masuk universiti. Aku yakinkan diri bahawa itu semua hanyalah kepercayaan lama. Tapi kebelakangan ini, apabila aku terjaga dalam gelap, aku terasa ingin berbicara semula dengan sesuatu—dengan seseorang.”
Nada suara Leila menjadi lembut.
“Mungkin iman itu seperti bahasa yang pernah kamu kuasai. Kamu cuma terlupa bagaimana hendak menuturkannya.”
Andrew memandangnya dengan pandangan yang tenang namun mendalam.
“Dan kamu?”
“Aku tidak pernah lupa,” katanya. “Tapi ada tahun-tahun di mana aku terlalu letih untuk berbicara.”
Andrew mengerti. Ruang itu kembali dipenuhi arus halus antara mereka—sebahagian persahabatan, sebahagian rasa hormat, dan sebahagian sesuatu yang tidak bernama, yang tidak berani mereka ganggu.
Selepas beberapa ketika, Andrew bangun dan melangkah ke arah tingkap. Hujan telah berhenti; sejalur cahaya matahari menembusi awan, berkilau di atas batu yang basah.
“Kamu percaya,” tanyanya, “bahawa rahmat boleh menemui kita walaupun kita tidak mencarinya?”
Leila teringat surat ibu saudaranya, teringat mimpi tentang Samir di tepi sungai, dan bagaimana iman perlahan-lahan menyelinap kembali ke dalam hidupnya seperti cahaya yang masuk melalui langsir separa tertutup.
“Ya,” katanya. “Rahmat menemui kita kerana ia tidak pernah pergi.”
Andrew berpaling dan menatapnya.
“Itu perkara paling menakutkan dan paling menenangkan yang pernah aku dengar.”
“Memang sepatutnya begitu,” jawab Leila.
Mereka kembali kepada kerja masing-masing, walaupun tumpuan mereka sudah tidak seperti biasa. Esei yang mereka terjemahkan berbicara tentang iman—cahaya yang diletakkan di dalam hati, tidak dapat dilihat oleh akal, tetapi tidak dapat dinafikan oleh mereka yang membawanya. Andrew menyalin ayat itu dengan teliti ke dalam bahasa Inggeris, kemudian meletakkan pen.
“Aku tidak pasti sama ada aku masih menterjemah,” katanya. “Atau sedang mengaku sesuatu.”
Leila tersenyum tipis.
“Mungkin kedua-duanya. Terjemahan bermula dengan kejujuran.”
Apabila hari berakhir, Andrew menemani Leila ke perhentian bas, walaupun jaraknya hanya beberapa jalan sahaja. Langit senja berjalur emas dan kelabu—cahaya yang terasa seperti keampunan. Mereka berdiri dalam diam, seolah-olah masing-masing tidak mahu menjadi orang pertama yang beredar.
Akhirnya Andrew berkata,
“Kamu membuatkan aku ingin percaya semula.”
Leila memandangnya, selendangnya bergetar ditiup angin.
“Kamu sudah pun percaya,” katanya. “Kamu cuma belum menyebut kata-katanya.”
Bas tiba, mendesah ketika pintunya terbuka. Leila melangkah masuk, namun pandangan mereka bertaut melalui kaca ketika enjin mula bergerak. Andrew mengangkat tangan, dan Leila membalasnya—satu doa kecil yang tidak terucap, berpindah antara mereka.
Malam itu, Leila tidak dapat tidur. Dia berbaring mendengar hujan kembali turun, berbisik di atas bumbung. Dunia di luar terasa luas, namun hatinya terasa penuh, seolah-olah sesuatu telah ditulis semula secara perlahan di dalam dirinya.
Dia mencapai buku catatannya dan menulis:
Iman tidak datang bersama guruh.
Ia datang sebagai rahmat yang mengetuk perlahan pintu hati.
Dan apabila akhirnya kamu membuka pintu,
kamu sedar ia telah lama menunggu.
Leila menutup buku itu, berbisik Alhamdulillah, dan membiarkan tidur menyambutnya.
✉️ Teaser – Episode 8 – The Call to Return 🕊️🌍
Kadangkala, iman tidak memanggil kita untuk melangkah ke hadapan —
tetapi untuk berpatah balik.
Satu surat.
Satu panggilan dari rumah.
Dan satu perjalanan yang menguji bukan jarak,
tetapi kesetiaan hati.
Apabila Leila terpaksa meninggalkan apa yang baru berputik,
dia belajar bahawa rahmat tidak selalu tinggal di tempat yang sama —
namun ia sentiasa menunggu di tempat asal kita.
Dalam episod ini, cinta diuji oleh jarak,
iman diuji oleh kehilangan,
dan pulang menjadi satu ibadah yang sunyi.
✨ Kerana ada perjalanan yang tidak membawa kita lari…
✨ tetapi membawa kita kembali kepada siapa diri kita sebenarnya.
— Episode 8: The Call to Return 🚪💌
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➡️ English Translation : Click Here
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