The Last Light Before the Darkness

I was born in Penang, raised in a quiet town near Balik Pulau. My parents died when I was in my twenties. My younger sister passed from coronavirus a few years later. No wife. No children. No one left, really. Just me—and the silence that follows you when you have no one to call.

I lived alone in an apartment in Bayan Lepas, working as an analyst. Life was routine. Solat was sometimes. Friends were distant. I told myself I’d reconnect one day. I’d go back to the masjid. I’d call my old schoolmates. I’d visit my late sister’s grave.

But I didn’t.

Then came the illness. Sudden. Aggressive. My body collapsed at work. I woke up in the ICU of Pantai Hospital Penang, tubes in my throat, machines beeping like a countdown. The doctors said it was a miracle I survived the first week.

And then, something strange happened.

I got better.

My mind cleared. My body responded. I could speak again. Eat. Laugh. The nurses called it a miracle. I called it a second chance.

I felt joy for the first time in years. I walked the hospital corridor with a smile. I watched the sunrise from my window and whispered, “Alhamdulillah.” I even opened the Quran app on my phone, though I didn’t read much. I told myself I’d start tomorrow.

But I didn’t.

I didn’t repent.

I didn’t cry to Allah.

I didn’t ask forgiveness from the friends I hurt, the debts I never paid, the prayers I missed.

I didn’t say goodbye to this world.

Because I thought I had time.

Then, one night, I dreamt of fire. Of a vast desert with no end. Of a voice whispering, “This is your final light.” I woke up drenched in sweat, unable to move. My body was shutting down again. The doctors looked grim. The nurse held my hand and said, “Encik, it’s happening again.”

I realized then: this was terminal lucidity.

A cruel mercy.

A final window before death.

And I wasted it.

Now, I write this from the edge of the grave. My soul heavy with regret. My heart screaming for a taubat that never came. I see the fire waiting. I hear the angels turning away. I feel the weight of every missed prayer, every ignored ayat, every moment I chose dunya over akhirah.

If you’re reading this, don’t wait.

Don’t waste your final light.

Repent now. Ask forgiveness. Return to Allah before it’s too late.

Because when the lucidity fades, only darkness remains.

Autumn in My Heart: A Letter to Ummi

The air has turned gentle, the skies wear a soft grey veil, and the trees—oh, the trees—have begun their quiet transformation. Golden, amber, and rust-colored leaves drift down like whispered prayers, carpeting the earth in a tapestry of memory. It is fall here in the northern hemisphere, or as we called it back home in Malaysia, autumn. A season we only knew through textbooks and television screens, yet somehow, it always felt familiar.

I walk to work each morning beneath these trees, and with every step, I feel you, Ummi.

You left several years ago, but this season—this tender, melancholic season—brings you back to me in ways I never expected. I remember you curled up on the woven screw pine mat, eyes glistening as you watched Autumn in My Heart, that Korean drama you loved so dearly. The soundtrack, especially the song Reason, echoes in my mind now, like a ghost melody carried by the wind. It plays in my heart as I watch the leaves fall, each one a memory, each one a moment I wish I could share with you.

Malaysia never had four seasons, but you taught me to imagine them. You spoke of Nova Scotia with such longing, as if the forests there held a secret just for you. You dreamed of Sault Ste. Marie, of watching the locks and the great lakes shimmer under a Canadian sky. I wish I could bring you here, Ummi. I wish I could show you the world you once dreamed of. I wish I could walk beside you through these golden woods, hand in hand, wrapped in scarves and stories.

This season is my favorite. It’s mellow, calm, and cloudy—just like your voice when you sang lullabies and dzikr, just like your presence when you sat beside me during storms. There’s something sacred in the stillness of autumn, something that feels like a quiet embrace from the universe. It’s as if the world pauses to remember, to reflect, to grieve gently.

I miss you, Ummi. I miss your laughter, your warmth, your way of making even the simplest things feel like poetry. I carry you with me—in the rustle of leaves, in the hush of morning fog, in the way the light filters through the trees like a blessing.

Al-Fatihah for you, my dearest Ummi. May your soul be wrapped in peace as soft as autumn clouds, and may the gardens of Jannah bloom with the colors you never got to see.

This season is yours. Always.