There she was—

Lost in a room filled with emotions.

Covered in blood, but it wasn’t pain that confused her… it was identity.

She didn’t know who she was—just a girl dragged from her mother’s womb.

She cried—not out of anger, but because she entered a world without a map.

The mother cried too—eyes trembling with emotions too deep for words, tears falling like a duʿā whispered in the dark.

The father smiled—his heart flooded with a joy no one could explain, a joy soaked in surrender and gratitude.

The doctors rejoiced—it was a successful delivery, they thought.

But true success lies with Allah—the One who gives life, who writes purpose into the soul before the body even forms.

They bathed her gently, clothed her warmly.

She tasted milk—new, strange, but comforting.

She blinked at the light of the world, still unaware that her life was already being recorded.

A soul just beginning, with nothing but fitrah and a blank scroll.

A girl without a name, but already beloved by Ar-Rahmān.