There was a heaviness in the room, as if the air itself had changed since the day he died, and eventually, as I learned to fall asleep again in the apartment, I started having vivid dreams, filled with strange and beautiful lights and colors I had never imagined. I would often wake up in the middle of the night thinking I had heard his voice or felt the touch of his cool hand on my hair. Over time, these experiences became part of my daily life and I eventually accepted them without question, if only to keep my sanity. But in the early days, it had been difficult and frightening, as if I were living in a portal between two worlds, and I was never quite sure which one I was in at any given moment.

And then on that cool winter night, something happened that I have never forgotten, something that still sends chills down my spine when I think of it. The heaviness in the air had grown almost intolerable, and I found that I had to breathe in deeper and deeper just to fill my lungs. It was as if a thick curtain were falling down on top of me, and I found it hard to move, as if I were being tied down by invisible ropes.

I struggled against the pressure, like a drowning woman deep underwater and desperately trying to rise to the surface to breathe. And then I heard a woman’s voice, which I thought must be coming from the courtyard of the Masjid. But the voice grew closer and clearer and I realized that it was whispering right beside me. Despite the heavy air that was holding me down, I managed to turn my head and look.

And I saw Fatima standing a few feet away. She was dressed in silvery white robes, her hair covered in a scarf that seemed to be glittering with stars. She was standing above her father’s grave, speaking words to him that I could not understand. The language was not Arabic, nor did it sound like the foreign tongues I had heard spoken in the marketplace-Persian, Greek, Amharic, Coptic. In fact, I could not say that she was speaking words at all. The sounds that were coming out of her lips were rhythmic and lyrical, almost like a song rather than speech.

I wanted to call out to her, to ask why she had come in the middle of the night, whether everything was all right for her and her children. But no words came out of my mouth. I simply stared at her, transfixed, until she finally turned to look at me.

And then I felt my breathing stop altogether. I recognized her and yet, at the same time, I did not. I somehow knew that the woman standing before me was Fatima, but her face had been wondrously transformed. Gone were the plain, harsh features, the long face that was always drawn in sadness. And in its place was the face of a new Fatima, a woman of such intense beauty and perfection that she no longer looked human. She had become what I had imagined an angel to be when I was a child. Her skin, which had often suffered from rashes and pimples, was now flawless and her cheekbones were crafted with such perfection that she looked like a living statue. Her eyebrows, once thick and unruly, looked as if they had been painted on her face. Her lips were no longer chapped, but full and sensuous, and her unruly hair now flowed like honey around her delicate shoulders, which had once been mannish and square.

The only thing about her that was unchanged was her eyes, the same black eyes that had belonged to her father, eyes that looked as if they could see deep into the farthest reaches of your soul.

She looked at me with those luminous eyes and smiled. And when she spoke, her voice sounded like the tinkling of bells.

“Tell your father that I understand now,” she said, and her words echoed as if she were calling to me from across a great chasm. “I understand and I forgive.”

Then she raised her right hand to me as if waving farewell. And my heart skipped a beat when I saw that in the center of her palm was what looked like a glowing blue orb shaped like an eye.

I stared into the swirling light at the palm of her hand as it grew brighter and brighter, until my entire room was bathed in its ethereal shine. The darkness of my room vanished in the cascade of wondrous azure light, as bright as heaven itself on a cloudless summer day.

I WOKE WITH A start to hear cries of grief from the courtyard. I looked around in confusion, expecting to see Fatima standing in the corner, but I was very much alone. As the sound of weeping intensified, I threw on a cloak and wrapped my face hastily behind a veil before peering outside.

A crowd of what looked like mourners had gathered in the courtyard, tearing at their clothes and wailing in sorrow.

“What is it?” I cried to them. “What has happened?”

A middle-aged woman stumbled toward me, slapping her breast and pulling at her hair.

“O Mother, the Ummah is bereft! Fatima the Shining has returned to our Lord!”

I felt my knees grow weak.

“When?” I managed to croak out. “When did this happen?”

An elderly man looked at me, his wrinkled face twisted in pain.

“Our master Ali said she died at sunset yesterday,” he sobbed. “He buried her in secret so that no man would worship her grave as the ignorant did of old.”

I sank to the ground, not able to comprehend what he’d just said. If Fatima had died the evening before, who had I seen in my room later that night?

No. I had imagined it. It was a dream, I told myself, nothing more, nothing less.

And then I remembered something that Fatima had said to me once when we were young girls in Mecca, a lifetime ago. I had told her that I had suffered through a bad dream the night before, one where I was being chased by a frightening old hag wearing a golden snake on her arm.

Fatima had simply shrugged and said not to worry. It was just a dream and no more real than anything else in life.

“What do you mean?” I asked, questioning her strange comment.

And then Fatima had fixed me with those powerful black eyes and spoke words that now echoed across the bridge of time.

“Life itself is a dream. When we die, we awake.”

3

Shortly after Fatima passed away, Ali went to my father and publicly reconciled with him. He told Abu Bakr that he bore no bitterness toward him and did not dispute his right to authority. He had withheld his endorsement, Ali said, as he felt that the family of the Prophet had been excluded in the handling of the succession. But the matter was done and Ali wished no more ill will between the House of the Messenger and the House of the Caliph. With the loss of Fatima, the Prophet’s young grandsons were motherless and Ali wanted to dedicate his time to raising them and spreading Islam through teaching. Abu Bakr was welcome to shoulder the burdens of the nation in his stead.

My father had wept and embraced the young man, and even my stone heart softened toward him slightly. Despite my inability to forgive him for betraying me, I felt sorry for Ali, who had, in the aftermath of the Prophet’s death, lost everything. As long as the Messenger had been alive, Ali had been one of the most prominent and influential members of the community. But since my husband’s death and the controversy around Ali’s refusal to swear allegiance to Abu Bakr, he had become increasingly isolated. His strange and awkward personality, tolerated during Muhammad’s lifetime, now made people wary, and he spent most of his days alone, tending to the plot of land that Abu Bakr had agreed to give him in trust. Ali had few friends, and only Talha and Zubayr could be considered regular visitors to his home. And now, with the death of Fatima, he was truly alone.

Abu Bakr led Ali out before the believers in the Masjid after Friday prayers, and the son-in-law of the Prophet clasped the right hand of the father-in-law of the Prophet and swore his loyalty. There were audible sighs of relief and cries of praise to God, for the uncertainty that had hung over my father’s reign, the nagging question of legitimacy, had finally been resolved.