🌊 Whispers of the Bosphorus - Episode 8
- Sasteria
- Jan 2
- 10 min read
Updated: Jan 7
➡️ Malay Translation : Click Here ➡️ Lyric (Letters From Home) : Click Here
🚪✨ Episode 8 – The Call to Return
(SasteriaWorld Original — English Version)
The letter arrived on a Wednesday morning, wrapped in an official-looking envelope, its corners worn from travel. Leila found it waiting on her desk when she arrived at the university. She knew at once—from the Sudanese stamp, from the thin blue paper—that it was from home. Her hands trembled slightly as she opened it.
Inside, her cousin’s handwriting ran hurried and uneven:
Dearest Leila,
Your mother has fallen ill. The doctor says her heart is weak. Aunt Mahasen sends her love and asks that you come if you can. She often calls your name in her sleep. The house feels empty without you. Come soon, before the rains end.
The words blurred. For a long moment, the sound of the clock on the wall was all she could hear—each tick a heartbeat echoing across the miles between Aberdeen and Khartoum.
Leila folded the letter carefully and pressed it to her chest. Then she rose, left the office, and stepped into the corridor. The air outside felt heavier than usual, as if the world itself had paused to listen.
When Andrew found her later that afternoon, she was standing by the window, eyes red but calm.
“You’re leaving,” he said quietly—not as a question, but as something already known.
“My mother is ill,” she replied. “I have to go back.”
He nodded, his throat tightening. “For how long?”
“I don’t know.” She tried to smile, but it faltered. “It depends on what I find there.”
Andrew sat down, the weight of her words settling between them. “You’ve built something here,” he said gently. “Something important—for yourself. For us.”
She met his gaze. “Then you’ll understand why I must go. Mercy begins at home.”
He looked away, out the window, at the rain streaking down the glass. “You’re right,” he said softly. “It’s just… I don’t want to lose what we’ve begun.”
Leila hesitated, then said, “We haven’t lost anything. Sometimes distance teaches the heart to listen better.”
That evening, they walked together through the old university courtyard. The lamps flickered to life one by one, their yellow halos glowing in the mist. The world seemed hushed, as though holding its breath for them.
Andrew carried her umbrella, though neither of them cared much about the rain anymore. They stopped beneath an archway, and Leila turned to face him.
“You once asked if mercy could find us even when we weren’t looking,” she said. “It did. It found both of us. Don’t forget that.”
He wanted to say something—anything that would make her stay—but the words refused to come. Instead, he said quietly, “Will you write to me?”
“Yes,” she said. “And when you do, read my letters the way you read Arabic—slowly, with respect.”
He smiled through the ache in his chest. “Then I’ll read them as prayer.”
They stood there a while longer, the silence between them tender and alive. When they finally parted, the sound of her footsteps faded into the rain until it was gone altogether.
At home, Leila packed her few belongings with careful hands—scarves folded, books wrapped in cloth, the small hibiscus plant placed by the window so it could drink what sunlight remained. She wrote a note for Andrew and left it on his desk:
Thank you for helping me remember that faith can live anywhere.
Pray for my mother, and for mercy that bridges oceans.
Then she closed the door behind her.
The flight to Khartoum felt endless. Through the plane window, the world changed color—the gray of Scotland giving way to the red dust of Sudan. When she stepped out onto the tarmac, the heat struck her like a memory long suppressed.
At the hospital, her mother’s face was pale but peaceful. The monitors hummed softly; the smell of antiseptic mingled with the faint sweetness of jasmine outside the window.
Leila sat beside her, taking her mother’s hand in both of hers. “I’m here,” she whispered. “I’m home.”
Her mother stirred slightly, lips moving around a half-formed word. Leila leaned closer and caught it—a single name: Samir.
For a moment, the old ache returned, sharp and familiar. But she did not cry. Instead, she whispered a verse her mother used to love:
“My Lord, expand for me my chest, and make easy for me my task.”
The night passed in slow prayers and quiet breathing.
Days turned into weeks. Leila remained by her mother’s side—cooking, cleaning, sitting in the courtyard where the hibiscus bloomed wildly despite the dry season. She wrote to Andrew once—short letters at first, then longer ones as her heart steadied.
In one, she told him:
The hibiscus still bloom, even when they forget the rain. That is how I feel here—alive again, but waiting.
He wrote back:
Some mornings I hear your voice in the quiet before dawn. Not as words, but as stillness. I think that is mercy speaking.
One evening, as the sky turned the color of pomegranate, Leila’s mother opened her eyes fully for the first time in days. She looked at her daughter and smiled faintly.
“You’ve come home,” she whispered. “I prayed that mercy would send you back before I left.”
“Don’t say that,” Leila said, tears falling freely now.
But her mother only smiled again, her hand weak but warm. “Mercy,” she said, “always brings us home.”
Later that night, when the stars came out over Khartoum, Leila stood in the courtyard, barefoot on the cool tiles. She thought of Andrew—his quiet eyes, his patient questions, the tea they once shared.
The wind rustled the hibiscus leaves, and she closed her eyes. In the distance, the call to prayer rose, clear and steady.
She whispered into the night:
“Ya Rahman, Ya Rahim—Most Merciful, Most Compassionate—guide us both.”
And in that moment, she felt it again: the same stillness that had begun in the snow of Aberdeen, now breathing beneath a different sky.
✉️ Teaser – Episode 9 – The Weight of What Remains 🌙🕯️
Sometimes, returning does not bring answers —
it brings silence.
Home is no longer a place of rest,
but a mirror of what has been lost
and what must now be carried.
Leila stays.
Not because it is easy —
but because love asks her to remain present
when the heart wants to flee.
Memories surface quietly.
Grief learns to speak without sound.
And faith is no longer a question of distance,
but of endurance.
In this episode,
mercy lingers without resolution,
love learns patience without promises,
and strength is found in staying awake through the night.
✨ Because some chapters are not written in movement…
✨ but in stillness, waiting, and trust.
— Episode 9: The Weight of What Remains 🕊️📖
➡️ English : Click Here
🇲🇾 🚪✨ Episod 8 – Seruan Untuk Kembali
(Terjemahan penuh dalam Bahasa Melayu)
(Versi Bahasa Melayu – Teks Biasa untuk Samsung Notes)
Surat itu tiba pada pagi hari Rabu, dibalut dalam sampul yang kelihatan rasmi, dengan bucu-bucu yang sudah lusuh akibat perjalanan jauh. Leila menemuinya di atas mejanya sebaik sahaja dia tiba di universiti. Dia tahu serta-merta—daripada setem Sudan, daripada kertas biru nipis itu—bahawa surat itu datang dari kampung halaman. Tangannya sedikit menggeletar ketika dia membukanya.
Di dalamnya, tulisan tangan sepupunya kelihatan tergesa-gesa dan tidak sekata:
Sayang Leila,
Ibu kamu jatuh sakit. Doktor kata jantungnya lemah. Mak Mahasen kirim salam dan berharap kamu dapat pulang jika mampu. Dia sering memanggil nama kamu dalam tidurnya. Rumah ini terasa kosong tanpa kamu. Pulanglah segera, sebelum musim hujan berakhir.
Kata-kata itu menjadi kabur. Untuk beberapa saat, hanya bunyi jam di dinding yang kedengaran—setiap detik seperti degupan jantung yang merentas jarak antara Aberdeen dan Khartoum.
Leila melipat surat itu dengan cermat dan menekannya ke dada. Kemudian dia bangun, meninggalkan pejabat, dan melangkah ke koridor. Udara terasa lebih berat daripada biasa, seolah-olah dunia sendiri berhenti untuk mendengar.
Apabila Andrew menemuinya pada petang itu, Leila sedang berdiri di tepi tingkap, matanya merah tetapi wajahnya tenang.
“Kamu akan pergi,” katanya perlahan, bukan sebagai soalan, tetapi sebagai sesuatu yang sudah dia ketahui.
“Ibu saya sakit,” jawab Leila. “Saya perlu pulang.”
Andrew mengangguk, kerongkongnya terasa sempit. “Berapa lama?”
“Saya tidak tahu,” katanya sambil cuba tersenyum, namun senyuman itu pudar. “Bergantung pada apa yang menanti saya di sana.”
Andrew duduk, berat kata-katanya memenuhi ruang antara mereka. “Kamu telah membina sesuatu di sini,” katanya lembut. “Sesuatu yang penting—untuk diri kamu. Untuk kita.”
Leila memandangnya. “Kalau begitu, kamu akan faham mengapa saya mesti pergi. Rahmat bermula di rumah.”
Andrew memalingkan wajah ke tingkap, memerhati hujan yang mengalir di kaca. “Kamu betul,” katanya perlahan. “Cuma… saya tidak mahu kehilangan apa yang baru kita mulakan.”
Leila terdiam seketika sebelum berkata, “Kita tidak kehilangan apa-apa. Kadang-kadang, jarak mengajar hati untuk mendengar dengan lebih baik.”
Pada malam itu, mereka berjalan bersama melalui halaman universiti lama. Lampu-lampu menyala satu demi satu, cahaya kuningnya bersinar dalam kabus. Dunia terasa sunyi, seolah-olah menahan nafas untuk mereka.
Andrew memegang payung Leila, walaupun mereka berdua tidak lagi peduli tentang hujan. Mereka berhenti di bawah sebuah lengkungan batu, dan Leila berpaling menghadapnya.
“Kamu pernah bertanya sama ada rahmat boleh menemui kita walaupun kita tidak mencarinya,” kata Leila. “Ia telah datang. Ia menemui kita berdua. Jangan lupa itu.”
Andrew ingin berkata sesuatu—apa sahaja yang boleh membuatkan Leila kekal—tetapi kata-kata tidak muncul. Akhirnya dia berkata perlahan, “Adakah kamu akan menulis kepada saya?”
“Ya,” jawab Leila. “Dan apabila kamu membacanya, bacalah seperti kamu membaca bahasa Arab—perlahan, dengan hormat.”
Andrew tersenyum dalam kesakitan yang menekan dadanya. “Kalau begitu, aku akan membacanya sebagai doa.”
Mereka berdiri seketika lagi, dalam diam yang lembut dan hidup. Apabila mereka berpisah, bunyi langkah kaki Leila semakin hilang dalam hujan sehingga lenyap sepenuhnya.
Di rumah, Leila mengemas barang-barangnya dengan tangan yang berhati-hati—tudung dilipat rapi, buku dibalut kain, dan pokok bunga raya kecil diletakkan di tepi tingkap agar dapat menikmati sisa cahaya matahari. Dia menulis sepucuk nota untuk Andrew dan meninggalkannya di atas meja Andrew:
Terima kasih kerana mengingatkan saya bahawa iman boleh hidup di mana-mana.
Doakan ibu saya, dan rahmat yang mampu merentasi lautan.
Kemudian dia menutup pintu di belakangnya.
Penerbangan ke Khartoum terasa tidak berpenghujung. Dari tingkap pesawat, warna dunia berubah—kelabu Scotland memberi laluan kepada debu merah Sudan. Apabila dia melangkah keluar ke landasan, bahang panas menyambutnya seperti kenangan yang lama terpendam.
Di hospital, wajah ibunya pucat tetapi tenang. Mesin-mesin berdengung perlahan; bau antiseptik bercampur dengan haruman melur dari luar tingkap.
Leila duduk di sisi ibunya, menggenggam tangan itu dengan kedua-dua tangannya. “Saya sudah pulang,” bisiknya. “Saya di sini.”
Ibunya bergerak sedikit, bibirnya membentuk satu nama yang hampir tidak kedengaran. Leila mendekatkan diri dan menangkapnya—Samir.
Untuk seketika, rasa perit lama kembali menusuk. Namun Leila tidak menangis. Sebaliknya, dia membisikkan ayat yang pernah disukai ibunya:
“Wahai Tuhanku, lapangkanlah dadaku, dan mudahkanlah urusanku.”
Malam itu berlalu dalam doa perlahan dan nafas yang tenang.
Hari-hari bertukar menjadi minggu. Leila kekal di sisi ibunya, memasak, membersih, dan duduk di halaman rumah di mana bunga raya mekar subur walaupun musim kering. Dia menulis kepada Andrew—pada mulanya surat pendek, kemudian semakin panjang apabila hatinya semakin tenang.
Dalam salah satu suratnya, dia menulis:
Bunga raya tetap mekar walaupun lupa akan hujan. Begitulah perasaan saya di sini—hidup kembali, tetapi masih menanti.
Andrew membalas:
Ada pagi-pagi tertentu saya mendengar suara kamu dalam sunyi sebelum fajar. Bukan sebagai kata-kata, tetapi sebagai ketenangan. Saya rasa itulah suara rahmat.
Suatu petang, ketika langit berwarna delima, ibu Leila membuka matanya sepenuhnya buat pertama kali selepas beberapa hari. Dia memandang anaknya dan tersenyum lemah.
“Kamu sudah pulang,” bisiknya. “Aku berdoa agar rahmat mengirim kamu kembali sebelum aku pergi.”
“Jangan cakap begitu,” kata Leila, air mata kini mengalir tanpa ditahan.
Namun ibunya hanya tersenyum lagi, tangannya lemah tetapi hangat. “Rahmat,” katanya, “sentiasa membawa kita pulang.”
Lewat malam itu, ketika bintang-bintang muncul di langit Khartoum, Leila berdiri di halaman, berkaki ayam di atas jubin yang sejuk. Dia teringat Andrew—pandangan matanya yang tenang, soalan-soalannya yang sabar, teh yang pernah mereka kongsi.
Angin menggerakkan daun bunga raya, dan Leila menutup mata. Dari kejauhan, azan berkumandang, jelas dan tetap.
Dia berbisik ke udara: “Ya Rahman, Ya Rahim—Tuhan Yang Maha Pengasih, Maha Penyayang—tunjukkanlah jalan untuk kami berdua.”
Dan pada saat itu, dia merasakannya kembali: ketenangan yang sama yang bermula di salji Aberdeen, kini bernafas di bawah langit yang berbeza.
✉️ Teaser – Episod 9 – Beban Yang Tertinggal 🌙🕯️
Kadang-kadang, kepulangan tidak membawa jawapan —
ia hanya membawa diam.
Rumah bukan lagi tempat untuk berehat,
tetapi cermin kepada apa yang telah hilang
dan apa yang kini perlu dipikul.
Leila tetap tinggal.
Bukan kerana ia mudah —
tetapi kerana kasih menuntut kehadiran
saat hati ingin melarikan diri.
Kenangan muncul tanpa suara.
Duka belajar berbicara dalam senyap.
Dan iman bukan lagi tentang jarak,
tetapi tentang ketabahan.
Dalam episod ini,
rahmat hadir tanpa penyelesaian,
cinta belajar bersabar tanpa janji,
dan kekuatan ditemui dengan berjaga
melalui malam yang panjang.
✨ Kerana ada bab yang tidak ditulis dengan langkah…
✨ tetapi dengan diam, menunggu, dan percaya.
— Episod 9: Beban Yang Tertinggal 🕊️📖
🎵 LYRIC SECTION — Letters From Home
The rain knows my name tonight,
It taps the glass like memory
I hold the silence in my hands,
And let it speak to me
A letter waits upon my desk,
Blue ink, trembling light
From a place I tried to leave behind,
But never left my heart
I learned to walk alone out here,
To breathe without your voice
But mercy finds me when I’m weak,
And reminds me I still belong
Some prayers are whispered, not to be heard
Some hearts are opened before a word
1 يا رب دلّنا إذا ضللنا
Keep us steady in the storm
Across the sea, across the years
and between the faith and all my fears
2 ارحم قلوبنا إذا تعبنا
I not as far as I seem
The harbour lights are breaking slow,
Like answers in the dark
I walk the edge between two worlds,
Tracing mercy with my scars
They say I look so strong back home,
As if light lives in me
But strength is just surviving nights
Where faith must learn to breathe
3 يا رب احفظهم في الغياب
4 واحفظني في هذا الطريق
If I forget, remind my soul
If I fall, don’t let me sleep
Some prayers are whispered, not to be heard
Some truths arrive without a word
5 يا رب اجعل الرحمة قريبة
When lief still waits its turn
Across the sea, across the night
Between the wrong and what feels right
6 ثبت قلوبنا على النور
I am closer than I was before
I seal the letter, breathe it out,
The rain begins to slow
Mercy is daily, memory too,
And home still knows my soul
7 يا رب لا تتركنا وحدنا
Even when the silence stays
Some prayers are whispered, not to be heard
Some hearts are opened before a word
يا رب دلّنا إذا ضللنا
Keep us steady in the storm
Across the sea, across the years
Between the faith and all my fears
ارحم قلوبنا إذا تعبنا
I am not as far as I seem
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➡️ English Translation : Click Here
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