That evening, after the sunset call to prayer echoed through the house, Azalea prayed in the small room she'd been given on the ground floor. She unrolled the thin prayer rug she had carried with her since the village. Her white prayer garment was simple, slightly faded, but clean and faintly scented with soap.
In a house this grand, there was no trace that anyone remembered the prayer times. No alarm for the call to prayer. No footsteps hurrying toward ablution.
Azalea stood, bowed, and prostrated with full devotion. In her prostration, she prayed—not only for herself, but for two small children who had suddenly become her responsibility.
"Oh God, soften their hearts. Don't let them grow up without knowing You."
Tears slipped down and dampened the prayer rug. As she whispered the closing salutation and began folding her garment, the door cracked open.
"Auntie…?"
The small voice made her turn. Erza and Elora stood in the doorway, hair still slightly damp from their evening bath.
"Have you two eaten?" Azalea asked gently.
Elora padded in first, staring at the prayer rug on the floor with wide-eyed curiosity. "What were you doing just now?"
Azalea froze.
Erza moved closer. "Why were you bowing like that? And talking to yourself?"
The questions were innocent. But they hit Azalea like a fist.
"That was prayer, sweetheart," she answered quietly.
"Prayer?" Erza scrunched his face. "What's that?"
Azalea swallowed. She tried to steady the storm rising in her chest. "Prayer is how we talk to God."
"Who's God?" Elora asked, utterly guileless.
That question struck harder than anything else. Azalea closed her eyes for a moment.
Oh God…
It hit her then. In three months of living in this house, she had never once seen Enzo pray. Never heard Elsa recite a single supplication. Even Minah had never been seen worshipping.
This enormous house stood in all its grandeur—and felt hollow. Empty of spiritual light.
Azalea took Elora's and Erza's small hands and sat them down on the prayer rug with her.
"God is the one who created us," she said softly. "Who created the sky, the earth, your daddy, your grandma, your auntie—and both of you."
Erza was quiet. "Daddy never told us that."
Azalea gave a thin smile. "Well, now I'm telling you."
"I'm going to read from the Quran now, okay?" she said, opening the small book she always kept close. She recited the opening chapter in a voice so gentle it seemed to change the texture of the room.
The bedroom that usually pulsed with the noise of video games or unexplained crying fell completely silent. Erza leaned against the headboard. Elora hugged her stuffed animal, eyes shining as she listened.
"What language is that?" Erza asked when Azalea finished.
"It's the language of the Quran. The holy book of Islam."
"We're Muslim?" Elora asked.
"Yes, sweetheart."
"How come Daddy never taught us?" Erza's question carried no accusation—just honest bewilderment.
Azalea swallowed. "I don't know," she said carefully. "But from now on, if you want, I'll teach you."
From that night on, a new rhythm took root in the house. Every time the call to prayer sounded, Azalea unrolled her rug. At first, she prayed alone. Then Elora started mimicking her movements. Then Erza, still shy, joined in.
"Auntie, tell us another story," Elora begged after Azalea finished reciting a few short verses.
Azalea smiled. "This time, I'll tell you about the Prophet Ibrahim."
She told them how Ibrahim searched for God, how he smashed the idols, how his patience was tested beyond measure.
Erza interrupted: "So Ibrahim was brave?"
"Very brave. Because he trusted that God was always protecting him."
"Auntie, is it okay to get angry?" Erza asked one day.
"It's okay," Azalea said gently. "But don't let it make you hurt someone else. The Prophet taught that when you're angry, the best thing to do is stay quiet. And if you're still angry, wash your face and hands for prayer."
Erza went silent for a long time.
Weeks later, when Erza was on the verge of hurling a toy across the room after losing a game, his arm froze mid-swing. He turned to Azalea.
"Auntie, I'm angry."
Azalea beamed with pride. "Then just say so. Tell me why."
Slowly, the house transformed. Erza stopped throwing things. Elora stopped screaming without reason. They began saying Bismillah before meals. They memorized short prayers. They started learning the Arabic alphabet.
Minah, who had watched from the sidelines at first, gradually sat down to listen whenever Azalea recited. "Ma'am, I haven't prayed in years," she whispered one day, her eyes brimming.
"It's never too late," Azalea replied softly.
But the changes did not escape Elsa's notice. At first, she didn't care. Nannies came and went—it was nothing new. Until one afternoon, as she was heading downstairs to the kitchen, she heard Azalea's voice drifting from the family room.
A light rain was falling that day, misting the large windows. The sky hung low and gray, as if it too were holding on to some unfinished longing.
Erza and Elora sat on the thick carpet near the window. Coloring books and crayons lay scattered between them. Azalea sat cross-legged, gazing at two small faces that were so much calmer than they'd been three months ago.
"Auntie…" Elora looked up, clutching her stuffed rabbit. "What did Mommy's voice sound like?"
The question stopped Azalea's hand mid-reach for a book. Erza, who had been pretending to focus on his drawing, turned to look as well. His face stayed neutral, but his eyes couldn't hide the depth of his yearning.
Azalea swallowed carefully. It had been a long time since either child had spoken the word Mommy this softly. Usually it only surfaced during tantrums or tears.
"Do you miss your mommy?" Azalea asked gently.
Erza snorted. "I don't miss her," he said quickly—but his voice was hoarse. "I just forgot what she looks like."
That answer was a tiny blade pressed into Azalea's chest.
Elora crawled closer. "Auntie is Mommy's sister, right? Tell us more about Mommy."
Azalea drew a long breath. She knew that speaking Jasmine's name in this house was like touching an old wound everyone had agreed to bury. But how could she let these children grow up without knowing their own mother?
"Your mommy…" Azalea's voice began to waver, but she forced a smile. "She was so beautiful. Her smile looked just like Elora's."
Elora blushed shyly.
"When she laughed, her voice was gentle. She loved to cook, even though the food burned half the time." Azalea chuckled at the memory. "Once, when we were kids, she almost set the kitchen on fire because she forgot to turn off the stove."
Erza smiled without realizing it. "Was Mommy strict?" he asked quietly.
Azalea shook her head. "She was patient. When you were a baby and cried all night, she didn't sleep. She held you and prayed."
Erza went still. "Mommy prayed too?"
"Yes," Azalea answered, holding his gaze. "She always prayed. She used to say that her children had to grow up knowing God."
Elora hugged Azalea's arm. "Did Mommy love me?"
The question cracked Azalea's composure. "So much. She used to send me pictures when she was pregnant with you—when you were still in her tummy. She'd say, 'Lea, pray that my baby turns out good.'"
Erza looked down. The crayon in his hand trembled. "Did I… did I ever make Mommy cry?" he asked suddenly.
Azalea cupped his small face and stroked his cheek. "She never cried because you were naughty. She only cried because she missed home, and because she was afraid she couldn't be a perfect mother."
Outside, the rain grew heavier. None of them noticed that at the foot of the staircase, someone stood frozen. Elsa. Her knuckles were white around the banister. Her face tightened with every word that left Azalea's mouth.
"Mommy wanted you both to memorize your bedtime prayers," Azalea continued gently. "She wanted you to grow up with tender hearts."
"Like you, Auntie?" Elora asked innocently.
Azalea's smile was tinged with sadness. "I'm just carrying on what your mommy wanted."
"Enough!"
The word split the room like a thunderclap. Erza and Elora flinched. Azalea's head snapped toward the voice.
Elsa stood in the family room, her face crimson. "What do you think you're doing?" Her voice was sharp, trembling with barely contained fury.
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