Every night after Isya', that lone song which reminded her of a Persian love story, Layla and Majnun, would be played, for ten minutes or so. When she first heard the wail of the flute, the serunai, she was piqued.
Who played it in the middle of the city?
The Indonesian workers below her apartment?
A student living in her block?
Every night for a month, she would wait for its siren call, and as it lulled her, she imagined love at its most urgent, angry, sad. The serunai understood a woman's heart.
And then it stopped.
Initially she was restless, but she became more frantic each night. How could she go to bed without her nightly lullaby? Who played the flute? How dare the person stop?
Like a mad woman abandoned by her lover, destroyed by love, she raged and wept in the bed her mother gave them for their wedding.
After a very fitful sleep one night, she woke up to a woman looking at her curiously.
He is where he should be rightfully. With me. I am his wife.
She blinked and the woman was gone. It was a dream. A strange one.
In the morning she woke up to golden strands of hair on the bed, with the smell of Mecca emanating from it.