The wind whistled through the gaps in the walls of the tiny house, a structure barely deserving the name, more a collection of weathered timbers and patched-up thatch clinging precariously to the hillside overlooking the village.
Inside, Sarah, her face etched with the wisdom of hardship but softened by a smile that held the warmth of a thousand suns, hummed a lilting tune as she stirred a meager pot over a sputtering fire.
Her skin, a soft medium yellow, was framed by straight black hair, pulled back from a face etched with worry but lit by an unwavering love. Her eyes, dark pools reflecting the boundless expanse of the sky, followed her son as he tumbled out into the dappled sunlight.
"Adam..." she called softly, her voice barely audible above the wind's whisper.
"Yes, Mom..." came his muffled reply, already lost in his game.
"Be careful, my love," she murmured, her voice a prayer carried on the breeze.
Muhammad Adam, barely three, was a whirlwind of energy. His skin, the same soft medium yellow as his mother's, glowed with a healthy sheen, his black eyes sparkling with mischief. His straight black hair bounced with each joyous leap. He was a vision of untamed beauty, a small cherub, his laughter a bright melody against the backdrop of the whispering wind.
He raced towards the ancient banyan tree, its massive roots a sprawling playground, its branches offering a cool, shady haven from the relentless sun. He chased butterflies with wings the color of stained glass, their delicate dance a mirror to his own exuberant movements. The air around him hummed with the buzz of insects and the rustling of leaves, a symphony of nature's gentle embrace.
Sarah watched him from the doorway, her heart swelling with a love that transcended the poverty that surrounded them, a love as vast and enduring as the ancient banyan tree itself.
That was the extent of their family, just two, but loneliness never dared to enter. Their love for each other was a shield, a world unto itself.
...
The sunset painted Sarah's face as she stood at the stove, the light streaming through a gap in the wall. It illuminated the worry lines etched around her eyes and the gentle curve of her smile as she watched her son, patiently waiting for his meal. The food was plain, nothing special, but the warmth of his mother's gaze made it a feast. The smell of the simple meal, a stew of vegetables and herbs, filled the air, a comforting aroma that spoke of home.
"Adam, dua..." she said, her voice soft as a prayer.
"Yes, Mom..." he replied, his small face lighting up with excitement.
Even though he was small, she shared her knowledge, knowing that her time in this world was limited. A shadow of sadness always lurked in her eyes, but she never let it cloud her love for her son.
The small, worn wooden table sat in the center of the room, bathed in the golden light of the setting sun. Dust motes danced in the air, illuminated by the fading rays that streamed through the single window. The aroma of the stew, a simple mix of vegetables and meat, filled the small space.
Adam's small hands, stained with the remnants of the meal, gripped the wooden spoon tightly. Sarah watched him, her heart overflowing with love. As the last rays of sun touched Adam's face, her smile, a little bit sad, a little bit full of love, enough to fill his heart. The stew's warmth was a comfort against the evening chill that was beginning to creep in.
"Mom," Adam said, his mouth full, "this is yummy!"
Sarah chuckled, her voice a soft melody in the quiet room. "It's just stew, my love."
She reached across the small table and brushed a stray strand of hair from his forehead. The touch of his skin, warm and smooth, brought a fresh wave of affection.
"But I like it when you make it!"
Sarah's gaze drifted to the chipped paint on the walls, the threadbare rug beneath their feet. She swallowed, pushing down the familiar ache in her chest.
"Then I'll make it every day, as long as I can."
...
As the night fell, they finished their meal, ready for their evening routine. Sarah began to teach Adam, her voice a gentle melody, the words of their faith and stories of the world, everything she knew, everything she wanted him to remember.
She held his small hand and whispered, "Remember this, my son. Kindness is the most important thing. Always be kind." The air grew colder, and the stars began to appear. Sarah gazed at them and whispered a silent prayer, a plea for her son's future.
"You know, Adam," she said softly, "I named you after the first man, Adam, peace be upon him. Because I wanted you to know you are the beginning of my world. And Muhammad, like the prophet, peace be upon him, a beacon of guidance. My hope is that wherever you go in this world, kindness will be your guiding light, my dear son." She smiled, a bittersweet curve of her lips. Those names, my purposes for you, the way you should live.
Adam looked up, his brow furrowing with a rare seriousness. "Mom," he asked, his small voice filled with concern, "where is Dad?"
Sarah's smile faltered, her expression clouding with a mixture of sadness and guilt. He's too young to understand. It's better this way. She swallowed, forcing a lightness into her voice. "Your father... he died, my love. From an illness. But he loved you very much." A lie, a necessary lie, a weight I must carry.
"Mom, will we always be together?" Adam asked, his small voice filled with concern.
Sarah pulled him close, holding him tight. "Always, my love. Always." She kissed his forehead. "Now, close your eyes. Let's find the moon." May his name be a guide, and his heart always be kind.