Rayyan woke up in a cold sweat. The Fajr adhan echoed through his apartment, but he remained still, staring at the ceiling. He had ignored this call for years. Why did it feel different today?
He was successful—a rising corporate star, drowning in wealth but starving in spirit. His mother’s voice haunted him: “Beta, prayer is the rope that keeps you from falling.” He had let go long ago.
At work, he passed Bilal, the old janitor, always praying in the storage room. Once, Bilal had smiled at him and whispered, “The call to prayer will outlive us all. When will you answer?” Rayyan had laughed then.
That night, Bilal died—alone. His prayer mat lay untouched. A note beneath it read: “Tomorrow is never promised.”
The next morning, the Fajr adhan echoed again. This time, Rayyan rose.
The cold marble of the mosque floor sent a shiver through him as he bowed for the first time in years. A single tear fell.
It wasn’t too late.
Moral: The call to prayer never stops.
