The Blue Door

After an extremely long break, here I am once again with another collab with my lovely sisters. The title of this small collection of short stories is titled ‘The Blue Door’ because my brain said: ‘Why not?’

The idea was to give a writing prompt to all the participants and let them create their own stories from there. The results will leave you with varying flavors, and maybe even wanting for more. But until another time, enjoy these stories woven from our thoughts and feelings. We all hope that you enjoy every single one of them.

Story 1:Atika

The beach lay quaint, seagulls brushing the clear skies—where Asiya’s Grandfather once lived. In a beautiful, calm, and unassuming place, none outside this world would be privy to its secrets.

The breeze that rises from the sea washes the air in the small town. It meanders through lanes, past cobblestone street, and enters a small shop with a blue door that opens as a customer enters, tinkling with the tiny bell above it. Flowers blooming in small baskets hang around the shop, turning it into a postcard-perfect scene.

If you stepped back from the street and took in this view, it would fill your heart with peace-related joy.

But today, the little bookstore was filled with angry noises. People started staring at the blue door, trying to understand what could be happening inside.

It had been a decade since it shut down. Ten years back, this small shop with the blue door and the tiny bell above it was paradise for Asiya. Her two most cherished beings resided here: her grandfather and his little bookstore.

The tiny Islamic bookstore and library were just a few steps away from the scenic beach, a perfect place to read and reflect on the fantastic creations of Allah. It was a place to get disconnected from the world. It was where Grandfather would read to them incredible stories of the Prophets (Sallallahu Alaihi Wasallam)  and Sahaba (Radhiallahu anhuma) every night beneath the canopy of stars, with his voice echoing with gushing sea waves and croaking frogs in the distance. In the mornings, the tiny shop bustled with activity as people of every age walked in, some curious travelers and some retired folks who now spent evenings with their best friends of wisdom, “books.”

Asiya could be seen crouched on a chair, on a marathon, to complete as many books as she could read before the holidays ended.

“An old sage,” her grandfather called her. But for Asiya, nothing mattered more than her books. She often wondered what she loved more, books or her grandfather’s company.

As Asiya grew older, her visits to the beach became fewer as she got busy with her studies, and over the years, the tiny bookstore mostly remained empty as the number of people decreased daily.

“It seems people today don’t have time to read books,” Grandfather would exclaim with a sigh.

But soon, the shadow of old age caught hold of him, and the tiny bookstore had to be closed. Grandfather had become too weak to carry the load of books he had carried all his life. Asiya, too, was worried about Grandfather now. She was now a high school graduate attempting to gain university admission. She stayed more with him than she visited the bookstore, as it pained her to see a once bustling place empty and without life. As the days passed, there wasn’t much improvement in Grandfather’s health. They all knew it was about time; the day they all dreaded had arrived sooner than later, and Grandfather had left them. The family was filled with sorrow, but Asiya was devastated. She lost her best friend, her closest confidant, and her grandfather. She believed somehow that her grandfather would be spared the fate of mortals. With Grandfather’s passing, the tiny bookstore was shut for good. The family moved to a different city, and the shop stayed shut, locked away from everyone’s sight.

Asiya was now married and the mother of two children. She had moved to a different country, but this year she returned to the place she called heaven as a child. The family too, returned to decide about the place after keeping it shut for so long. Rumors were spreading all along that it was haunted and something creepy lived beyond the blue doors. Asiya couldn’t bear to hear such stuff about the place she loved, but today the family that came together at this place to meet each other were putting up a fight to procure it.

Asiya stood at the sidelines watching her two brothers fight over it. Her father sat, head held in his hands as he couldn’t stand watching them. Her elder brother stormed out angrily, fuming, slamming the little blue door behind him. Asiya’s father wanted his children to procure the place legally and do something about it.

“It’s up to you people to decide what you want to do with Grandfather’s legacy,” he said to Asiya and her siblings.

Each of her brothers wanted it solely for themselves.

It had been a year, but they couldn’t conclude the conflict. Unaware of what to do, she looked around the place more carefully as she sat there.

Time had remained stagnant at this place—a mini-museum of life they had a decade ago.

The table stood in the same place, but the chairs were gone. The shelves remained empty, which were once filled with books of wisdom. Asiya’s children quickly found refuge below the table as a spaceship, and she smiled, remembering when they had done the same thing and Grandfather had asked them to leave because of the chaos they were creating.

It looked like a reel playing backward. Asiya stood there, soaking in the flurry of the emotions of the past that hit her. The longing to jump into the past made her sick. But somehow, it comforted her, like a blanket wrapped around her. It felt like a long embrace from her grandfather. With watery eyes, she stood, wondering how this place felt the same.  She could hear her father speaking to someone. She turned around to see her father in her grandfather’s chair, holding a newspaper and explaining something to her elder daughter. At the same time, she sat transfixed, listening carefully to her grandfather. It looked like she was reliving that part of her childhood through her daughter. And slowly, like a fog lifting, she felt the idea creep into her mind.

“What if we take responsibility and start the bookstore again?”

“Great! Now we have another contender.” her brother said sarcastically.

“Again!?! “But who reads nowadays?” replied her elder brother.

“That’s why starting it’s all the more important. To instill in the next generation a love of books.” she tried to reason with them.

None of them lived here anymore, and so the idea looked all the more impractical to them.

“I know we won’t be making profits through it. However, the goal is to uphold Dada’s legacy.  For him, for his sadqah jariyah. I am willing to come down and live nearby. But I wish to do it along with you two as well. He wouldn’t want us to fight over what he left.” she tried to reason with them.

“ If you are willing to come down and live here, I am ready to support you dear. And technically, it’s mine, but I wished to decide the fate of this place before I go as well.” Her father chipped in. “I think it’s a brilliant idea to let it be a sadaqah jariyah for him,” he said, smiling at Asiya.

Unwillingly, her brothers agreed. 

In the following months, there was a lot of activity near the bookstore, causing onlookers to pause and take a closer look.

The little bookstore with the blue door was returning to life again.

Asiya’s kids were at the beach playing in the waves, and Asiya stood in cobbled street, examining the board now being put up on the small shop, which still had the blue door.

‘Habeeb Islamic bookstore and library

Her husband joined her in examining it from a distance. He asked, “Are you sure about this?”

She nodded confidently while still gazing at the board that shone with tiny fairy lights. “You know why? Because certain legacies need more than one lifetime to leave an impact”


About the author: Syeda Atika Yahya is an Indian Muslim content writer and blogger. For the past ten years, she has been juggling motherhood and family.  She began her writing journey by writing down memories of her children—a journal of memories which, over time, began to take the shape of articles. As a mother of 3 daughters in the subcontinent, she often penned the various prejudices and stereotypes she faced around her.  Often questioning the root of their existence, her writing became an outlet for expressing her opinion about them. Growing up in a traditional Muslim household, Syeda Atika Yahya was instilled with a strong sense of community and family values, which have greatly influenced her writing.

In the year 2020, she started her blog She connected with Muslimah bloggers with similar interests through the blog and worked on collaborative projects with them. This exposure helped her to be a part of a halal life magazine, an e-magazine for a halal lifestyle.

In this magazine, she has written on various topics, from lifestyle and wellness to current events.

Currently, she is working on self-publishing her first children’s book, which celebrates the diversity and beauty of Allah’s creation. In her first book, she encourages children to look at the world with curious and open eyes and to understand that everything is a blessing from Allah. And He is the perfect Creator. She believes that this belief if instilled in young children, will help them overcome self-doubt and increase their self-confidence many folds.


Story 2: Azra

The beach lay quaint, seagulls brushing the clear skies. This is where I live.  In a place so beautiful and calm and unassuming, that none from outside this world would be privy to its secrets. The breeze that rises from the sea washes the air in the small town. It meanders through lanes, past the cobblestone street and enters the small shop with the blue door which opens as a customer enters, tinkling the tiny bell above it. Flowers blooming in small baskets hang around the shop, successfully turning it into a postcard perfect scene. If you stepped back from the street and took in this view, your heart would be filled with a joy so related to peace.

If only you knew the story of this small shop with the blue door and the tiny bell above it…

The tinkling brings me out of my reverie. This time it’s a group of tourists. I sit at the small table outside the shop. The owners, Ozul and Amaris, are well known to me. They arrived 40 years ago from lands unknown. We are a simple folk. We don’t ask too many questions. And love to welcome people.

Ozul and Amaris had four children. The oldest, Ingram was my age. Our community welcomed them with open arms. They quickly found a home and neighbors to help them settle in. The elders in our community had forbidden us to ask them anything.

‘It is their past’ my grandfather had said firmly. ‘It is supposed to stay behind.’

In our community, the word of an elder was never questioned.

But Ingram gave us a glimpse of his past life. “Where I come from, we paint the doors blue. the last soul to leave comes back to help the next soul into the Otherworld. The Blue Door guides them.”  

Ingram and his siblings soon left. He visits every few years. During his last visit, his wife accompanied him.

A crash dissipated my thoughts into the salty air. I looked up. Tia, my second child stood staring at the ground in my shop, tears now filling her eyes. I knew she must have accidently smashed a vase. Her mental development was slow. Sometimes she did things without meaning to.

“Mia!” I called my eldest daughter. She peeked from behind the shop, took one look at the floor and gently led Tia out. The youngest, Leo was at the beach with his friends. Life was as peaceful as possible.

“Coffee!” Ozul gently deposited a steaming cup along with one of Amaris’ thick, gooey cookie. My regular breakfast. Ozul and Amaris had opened the café a few years ago. They painted the door blue and hung a small bell above it. I bought the shop opposite, turning it into a flower shop.

“Thank you!” I smiled as he took the chair beside mine. After Ingram left, Ozul and Amaris were shocked that at such an advance age, they were expecting. Zane was the miracle baby of our community. He was everyone’s. He could sleep in one home, eat in another. He was loved

Which is why his disappearance was our tragedy.

We prayed for his safe return. Last month a single shoe washed ashore. We started praying for peace: for him and us.

“I brought you flowers”, I said. Ozul smiled. Sadness was now permanent in his eyes. I regularly brought them fresh flowers. Nestled among them, a single flower from my flower bed. An ode to Zane. Before he could say anything, Tia ran towards us. She must have spotted Ozul. She flung her arms around him. He embraced her tightly.

“Grandpa! I’m sorry I lost Zane! I am sorry he went to sea!  I miss him…I miss him…” Tia’s muffled voice filled my eyes with tears.

“I know love…I know…it’s not your fault Tia…you know he loved the sea.” Ozul gently pulled Tia apart, looking at her face now messy with tears and snot. He gently wiped it with his sleeve. “You know, maybe he is riding dolphins and playing with mermaids!”

“He is?” Tia’s eyes widened. Ozul nodded. She ran off to draw what she had just heard.

“How is Amaris?” I asked.

“Waiting for her time so that Zane would walk through these blue doors once more.” He sighed, then added. “So am I.”

Zane’s radiant face clouded my vision. He was such a happy child! He brought out the most loving side of people. “I miss him…so much…”

Ozul’s knotted hands gently patted my knee. “I know…I don’t know how we could have survived without all of you. Thank you for the flowers.” He left, slowly walking to his shop. I stared at the beach. Zane’s memories weighed heavy on my mind.

On that fateful day Tia and Zane were playing at the beach. I was crouched, gathering sand in a sack for my flower bed. In a sudden fit, Tia had pushed Zane and ran off screaming. What she didn’t see was that Zane had fatally hit his head on a rock. No blood. But dead. I wept but knew I couldn’t let Tia be punished.  I stuffed his small body into the sack, piling more sand on top. Then I swam in the sea with his shoes in my pocket, pebbles in them. On my way home, I called out to the half-delusional Olina sitting in front of her home.

“Olina! Can you send one of your children to watch Zane? I must work on my flowers.”

She shouted back. “He ran off! Maybe he went to Aaya’s house for candies.”

God knows what goes on in this woman’s head.

“Ok…can you atleast tell Aaya to keep a lookout?” I insisted.

She nodded: “Don’t worry! We are all family. He’s safe!”

By night, people had started looking for him. Tia had a meltdown that she had ‘lost him’. I told them the truth: I had last seen him at the beach. Olina supplied the rest. The town gathered around the shoreline. Some on boats. Some diving. I stayed home with Tia and dug the flowerbed. Only, I dug deeper. Over time, I turned it into a playful and beautiful patch, with sand, shells and mermaids. Zane would have loved it. The tourists loved it too. I had protected my family, Ozul and Amaris. It was the best I could do. Every time I plucked those flowers, I would cry with that insane longing for a beloved which accompanies you to the grave. I know that till the time I die, I would never stop mourning him. Maybe more than I had ever or will ever mourn, my own family.

Zane. Our miracle child.

“You’re home Zane…” I would whisper every time I crossed the threshold. The Blue Door had been guiding him home.


About the author: Azra Rahman fancies herself a storyteller alongside being a mom and a wife, right in the middle of being a daughter, sister and friend. She can, by some miracle, twist pens, pencils and brushed into weird lines, so she also likes to think herself as an artist. Sometimes she puts together different words and calls them poems. So now, she’s also a poet. Oh and don’t forget the various baking and cooking posts she has on her Instagram account. I guess she thinks of herself as a baker and homecook? I mean, what’s up with her? This blog is hers, so of course she’s also a blogger! Duh! And don’t get me started on the many hats she wears. Which is why you can see her wearing none, and has instead swapped them for different hijabs for different times, Man, can this woman stick to just one thing or not…???

By the way…she’s excellent at roasting herself. I think you get the gist. (:wink:wink:)

Story 3: Lubna

I am Nora. At 8 I was vibrant and bubbly, full of dreams, hopes, and aspirations for a future which I held more in my heart than in my dreams. The beach lay quaint, seagulls brushing the clear skies. This is where I live.  In a place so beautiful and calm and unassuming, that none from outside this world would be privy to its secrets. The breeze that rises from the sea washes the air in the small town. It meanders through lanes, past the cobblestone street and enters the small shop with the blue door which opens as a customer enters, tinkling the tiny bell above it. Flowers blooming in small baskets hang around the shop, successfully turning it into a postcard perfect scene. If you stepped back from the street and took in this view, your heart would be filled with a joy so related to peace.

If only you knew the story of this small shop with the blue door and the tiny bell above it…

People in my town say I imbued an uncanny charm, a kind that traps you in its entirety. Everyone in my family knew I was different, blessed with gifts more than one, and so even without uttering a word, my family exuded a pride, a pride that comes naturally to a parent knowing that their child is destined to be someone, someday. Certainly I was blessed. Just not the way everyone around me thought. After my schooling in the  town where I outperformed everyone, I got selected for a scholarship in one of the prestigious universities in the UK. I still remember that day vividly , there was a whole atmosphere of joy and glory. After all, I was the first in town to make it to the Ivy League. It was like a festival. I believe almost everyone from the town was there for my farewell.

It was Baba’s plan to host the party right outside his coffee shop. His coffee shop, the best in town, was located in the heart of the city. It had flowers hanging in small baskets around the deep blue door with a tiny bell above it which tinkled every time a customer entered. A huge tent draped with lights, food and music, with such a picturesque background was the venue for my party.

The next few days were super busy, with all the packing and preparations for a journey that I  never got to make ….

It was the 7th of November. A pleasant , breezy evening and the day I had to catch my flight. My flight to success, career and realization of dreams. It was 5:30 P.M and mom was furious. She, like always, wanted to reach before time, and we were already running late . In all this hurry we missed the leaving home goodbyes , only to know later that it wasn’t even due. Mom, Baba and I all hastily got into the car and drove off. We must have driven for some time, when I heard the screeching sound of a big vehicle. Everything went dark after this. The next time I opened my eyes, I was in the ICU. It took me a few moments to gather and realize what had befallen me , a stark pang of pain hit me. Not the physical one from my wounds and injuries , but something much deeper. The pain of knowing that you have lost something forever. Every part, every joint of my body hurt, and amidst all this I suddenly realized that my eyes were open but I couldn’t see.

‘Devastated’- The word couldn’t even come close to how I felt at that moment. I howled and shrieked, just as my mom entered my room. We hugged each other the tightest we ever had. As she kept caressing my hair , the wailing gradually descended into mourning. A haunted mourning that doesn’t let you grieve with a voice anymore. Baba never came.

This wasn’t the end for me. If it were, it would have been so much easier. This was the beginning. The beginning of a journey never anticipated. Even after multiple surgeries and physiotherapies, I was barely close to my old self. After a month I got discharged, and mom , who also was recovering from her injuries, took me home with the help of my friend Dalia. As I heard Dalia’s voice , I remembered the “Goodluck, have a bright future ahead” card, must be still lying there in my backpack. Some paths are never meant to be traversed; they just lay there untrodden, on one of the possibilities of how life could have been like. The ride from the hospital to home was the longest I had ever taken in my life, this time imbued with fear , hopelessness and regret. I knew there was no going back. I had nothing to do when I got back home. I was blind and couldn’t do the most basic chores , forget about doing something extraordinary . My mom could sense my restlessness and pain, she knew something needed to be done to make me at ease. The very next day she came to me with a book (a braille version of course) . As I opened the book and touched its cover it read THE QURAN. Tears cascaded down my cheeks. All my life I had never opened the book, thinking that I didn’t have the time, and now time was all that I had. This was the beginning , another path opened, the amount of peace and tranquility ITS reading gave me was inexplicable. Gradually I found myself drowning in this ocean, the more I read the more I wanted to. I started delving deeper into the meanings, felt like this wasn’t a book for everyone, this was just for me. Allah talking to me, addressing me, answering me….I began to get answers to all my questions:

أَحَسِبَ ٱلنَّاسُ أَن يُتْرَكُوٓا۟ أَن يَقُولُوٓا۟ ءَامَنَّا وَهُمْ لَا يُفْتَنُونَ

Do people think once they say, “We believe,” that they will be left without being put to the test?

In a very short span of time my closeness and connection with the Creator grew profound. How ALLAH has his ways and puts barakah in our time! 

I completed my bachelors and masters in Islamic studies. Today 6 years after the incident took place, the one that changed my dunya (worldly life) and perhaps my akhirah (afterlife), I teach Islam to whoever aspires to. I have converted Baba’s tiny little coffee shop into a center for Islamic studies. Every morning after fajr I come here to welcome my first batch of students. In my mind there is a vivid picture of how this place looks though I can’t see it anymore. I feel every bit of it , the flowers blooming in small baskets hanging around the shop, the blue door, the fresh breeze, the serenity , the calm. That calm which arrives after chaos. I read the Quran here , remember Baba, make dua for him. And as soon as I hear the tiny bell above the door tinkle,  I get to know my students have arrived. 


About the author: Lubna Anwar is a Freelance Writer and Educator with a Master’s degree in Information Technology. A certified Life Coach , mum of 2 and a member of Raising Young Scholars an Islamic Education Academy, for which she writes parenting and education blogs, she is an education enthusiast, and believes in quality and affordable education for all. She has also written ‘Mindfulness Journal for Muslim women’ , which is available at :

Story 4: Ruby

The beach lay quaint, seagulls brushing the clear skies. This is where I live. In a place so beautiful, so calm and unassuming, that none from outside of this world would be privy to its secrets. The breeze that rises from the sea washes the air in the small town. It meanders through lanes, past the cobblestone street and enters the small shop with a blue door which opens as a customer enters, tinkling the tiny bell above it. Flowers blooming in small baskets hang around the shop, successfully turning it into a postcard perfect scene.

If you stepped back from the street and took in this view, your heart would be filled with a joy so related to peace.

If only you knew the story of this small shop with the blue door and the tiny bell above it.

… my heart skips a beat when I think about how I came to live here with the man I fell in love with. He stole my heart when he came to my village in Pakistan and stopped where I was selling fruit Ami (mum) had given me to sell, and bought it all.

That day, like any other day, seemed normal until he told me I was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. I was so shy, he melted my heart and captured my soul with his kind words. I was wearing an exquisite necklace. He asked me if I would give him the necklace I was wearing as a token of our undying friendship and I gave it to him in front of everyone. I also called him a thief because he stole my heart, he winked, put on the necklace, and left.

You have to close your eyes now, and taste what was to come.

So, it wasn’t only me and Ami that knew I’d given my heart to this stranger, the local ghunda (ruffian) saw everything. He came to our house to tell Ami I mustn’t talk to this strange man, this foreigner ever again. He told Ami he was responsible for taking care of us and he would do so. 

Ami told me what happened and I cried all night into the early hours of the morning. My tears fell like pearls falling onto the ocean bed of my heart as I promised I would never speak to him again. My heart ached. I never knew loving someone could hurt so much. The only good thing was that he had the necklace Abaji (dad) gave me before he passed away. 

Abaji (dad) told me the necklace would bring me untold happiness and I would fall in love but that  I would leave the place of my birth. I told Abaji I could never leave him or the place of my birth, he said that I would because it would feel right and my heart would know.

The following morning we set off to Bhurban, a beautiful place in the North of Pakistan, where my Khala (Ami’s sister) lived.  She felt my broken heart putting her arm around me as I walked with her and Ami silently alongside the river with it’s gushing water, so pure and so deadly. She said the river never stood still for anyone and the water could heal and it could kill. She told me never to give up on Allah, where there was hope, HE would show me a way. She brought a twinkle to my eyes and gave my heart courage. 

We went to the hotel and sat on a charpai (a wooden frame of natural fibre ropes/bed) outside, with our feet wading in the cool water running beneath our feet. As we ate our food, I saw there was a man on the charpai beside us. 

It was him. 

He spoke to Ami, Khala and me. He had followed us to Bhurban. He saw the ghunda and knew I wasn’t safe. He went to our house and saw that it was full of beautiful flowers of silk that Ami and I had made. He said he felt my presence in our home, it felt tranquil. He wanted to take me away with him. Ami and Khala were worried but could see how kind he was and how I came alive around him. They felt it was a little soon but if we left it any later, the ghunda would probably hurt me and Ami. Ami would not be able to return to the village without me, so it was decided.

He would take Ami too. Can you believe that?

Khala made us leave quickly and that night we crossed the rugged, mountainous terrain of Pakistan and Afghanistan in the dark of the night. Khala sent messages ahead of us for people to make sure we made it across Pakistan and Afghanistan safely. Once we crossed the checkpoints through Afghanistan, he took us to the Embassy and had passports made for us and we flew to Europe. I was wearing a blue dress. He was wearing the necklace I gave him, the one Abaji gave me. The necklace had a bell on it. That’s the bell that is on the blue door of the shop. The flowers that bloom in the small baskets grow in our garden and Ami and I make them for the customers that come through the blue door. The bell reminds us of Abaji.

You can open your eyes now – come visit us, enjoy the breeze and the peace. Know that dreams can come true.

My father’s gift to me, was given to my first love, who wore it till we were safe in our home. We placed it on our door to share with everyone who enters – to welcome them and for their hearts to be filled with joy and peace. 

I left the land I was born in to be with the one I love … my heart knew.


About the author: Ruby grew up in London, England and has lived in Florida, USA and Pakistan.  She currently works for the Crown Court in London and has worked in the field of Domestic Violence and Violence Against Women and Girls for decades. She creates and delivers programs for women and children who have experienced abuse. Her focus is on getting people to trust themselves to make decisions about their own lives.

To find out more about her work please visit

Story 5: Shakeela

The beach lay quaint, seagulls brushing the clear skies. This is where I live. In a place so beautiful and calm, and unassuming, that none from outside of this world would be privy to its secrets.
The breeze that rises from the sea washes the air in the small town. It meanders through lanes, past the cobblestone street and enters the small shop with a blue door which opens as a customer enters, tinkling the tiny bell above it. flowers blooming in small baskets hang around the shop, successfully turning it into a postcard perfect scene. If you stepped back from the street and took in this view, your heart would be filled with a joy so related to peace.
If only you knew the story of this small shop with the blue door and the tiny bell above, it.
This business was known for having a thousand mysteries, including the way to a new planet, the universe of uniqueness, and the globe of wilds. After continually observing the surroundings of this location throughout my regular morning stroll, it grew to be the focus of my attention.
Morning walks and extended walks became a regular part of my routine after my mother’s unexpected passing. When folks were getting ready for work, I would head to the beach. I would keep moving while listening to music, which would further carve out and scratch my inner emotions. I would sit when my steps wouldn’t deliver my body. I would sit on the beach and start staring at mom’s pictures, and tears would run down the sidewalks of my cheeks. I would take a break and sit somewhere in the middle of the beach. Sometimes I would lie down and watch the sky, thinking about heaven.
Overthinking was not a new thing; it grew up with me. It became my closest companion after Mom died; it would sometimes transport me to heaven, where I would sit with Mom, talking and laughing. And when the noise of my surroundings or the splash of water touching my toes brings me back to my senses. I would realize, it’s not easy to live heaven’s life in this world’s life. I’d get up after kissing Mom’s picture and head home to begin my day. Today, when I was going back home, my eyes fell upon the blue door of this shop, and I saw on the board a potion for peace. I wondered why I hadn’t seen it before, but I soon realized that with Mom, peace was always there. One of the popular mysteries was shop selling a potion that would make people forget about their worries and only think about positive things in their imagination. Any negative thing wouldn’t affect the person, so he or she would think life is so beautiful and so perfect.
The blue door looked like a blue ocean full of mysteries and depth. I’m not sure why I was drawn in by its blue color and the hanging flowers; everything appeared to be in heaven. The cool breeze also convinced me to move towards the blue door. I was convinced that the other side of the blue door is heaven because people said those who drank the potion from this shop never showed up again in the neighborhood, and they might have been in heaven. I desperately wanted to see my mom and meet her, so I thought I should buy this potion. As I was getting closer to the shop, I remembered that I didn’t have money, and my eyes fell upon the ring on my finger. How could I sell it? This ring is one of Mom’s possessions. Recently, my thoughts turned to realities, so I didn’t try to ignore them; rather, I found them peaceful. When I looked at mom’s ring, I thought of selling it because seeing mom, hugging her, and staying with her are more worthy than wearing her ring. I decided to sell this ring for the peace potion.
I took my steps, and after taking approximately seven steps, someone held me back. When I turned back, my scarf was stuck to a thin twig of a branch, and the other end of the scarf was stuck to mom’s ring. I removed the scarf from the ring and the twig and started moving. As I moved a bit more toward the shop, a gust of wind passed through my eyes, and I stumbled and
fell. My knee got a scratch; however, I managed to move again toward the shop. Soon I felt that someone was following me.
“Good morning,”.  A long black-haired girl said, her lips slightly turned to the left.
“Good morning,” I said.
For a moment, I imagined her long, white, a-shaped gown as a fairy’s gown. Maybe an angel or fairy will take me to mom. Are you going there? She asked me while pointing her face towards the blue door.
“Yes,” I said, believing her to be an angel.
 The moment I stepped ahead with her; my eyes caught a picture in a book she was holding. The cover of the book had a girl holding a potion bottle and blood dripping through her mouth. My heart started thudding like a hammer, but I did not doubt going to heaven. Suddenly my phone rang and took me back from my thoughts. I received the phone and heard the voice of my six-month-old boy screaming in his lungs. My husband said: “Where are you? Ihsan got a bump on his forehead.”
“Coming,” I said.
 My eyes were filled with tears, and my legs were faster than my thoughts. I looked at Mom’s ring and spoke. “You are not dead; you are alive in my memories, and you have taught me enough to send you my regards in my prayers.” I changed my way to not deprive my son of his heaven.

The girl asked me. “Are you not going to the shop”?
“Some other day.” I said, walking briskly towards home.


About the author: “I was born and raised in Pakistan. I started reading English poetry and novels in 2015, the year I relocated to Canada. I currently live in Toronto with my family. I’m an early childhood instructor in Toronto. Other times, I pursue my love of writing. I’m currently working on my first poetry book, which will be released in a few months. Grief, sorrow, love, and feminism are some of my favorite topics in poetry. To utilize my background as an early childhood educator, I am also considering writing about a few picture books for kids.

2 thoughts on “The Blue Door

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  1. All the stories are amazing with a purpose and powerful message. I noticed most of stories have a spiritual and emotional element about a character in stories. Mashalla sisters did great job.

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