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.