My eyes are closed, but I can feel him approach the side of my hospital bed. Even in the fog of pain, sleep, and hospital beeps, the fog clears in my mind for a second, and I understand. Him. The one I had seen twice in my dreams, the angel of death, Azraeel.

"Do not bother to wear the face of my ancestors, malak ul mauth. I know it is you" I say. My voice is frail, ragged. My son, R, is close, but so so far. He is leaning toward me, speaking, but my ears can no longer hear in this realm.

I feel the presence next to be startle. My eyes are open, but he is in the dark, and I still cannot see. The veil. He gives a resigned sigh, and steps forward. My eyes widen. So good looking. But eerie. Silent. Other worldly. His black eyes unnatural, his hair unmoving. I am about to open my mouth and state that he lose the ruse, but he holds up a hand "You are not worthy of viewing the real me, bani adam. That is reserved for the nabuat." I bow my head in acknowledgement.  

He hesitates before speaking. How many souls is he reaping right now. He inclines his head, as if he hears my thoughts. His fake eyes, they are black windows into a vast space. "Where would you like to go" he asks. 

Heavan? Hell? Why ask me? "I am but a mortal. How can I decide what is is the decision of al Hakam" 

His voice - the voice of a 1000 voices - says again, with more weight so my entire realm shakes. "Where would you like to go". It does not seem to be a question he asks many. 

Ns mother. She had asked to go see all her friends, and had come to see me. And she had dreamed of flying to Makkah before then. Who would I like to go see? Then I have it. "Take me back. To when my life was not full of pain"

His dead eyes, the ones that betray his unnatural lack of humanity, burn towards me. I feel more than see his pity. It is an unusual request, but not so unusual for me. "Would you like me to take you to your childhood" we are standing next to me on the road outside my home in Karachi. I am in my pink skirt, the one my mother said was pretty. I am in my pink bike, the one with the gears. I am fearless. I am riding, it is early evening, the wind in my hair, as I zip down the road, my heart soaring with happiness.

"No. take me to the beginning". 

We are sitting in a dunkin donuts. We are 23. I am so much in love. We don't even notice how close we are sitting, the side eyes we are getting. He's nochalantly chomping down on a coffee stirrer, I'm wearing that flood relief bracelet I bought. He touches my arm with one finger, and the contact electrifies me, and I can feel it across time and space.

"Why do you cry al ans" he asks, curiously. i notice I have wet tears, even in this incorporeal realm. 

"This does not cause happiness. This causes deep bitterness. Whatever made me happy, I lost it all. it became my greatest and deepest sources of pain. How can you show me this."

"I can take you back" he says, and briefly the hospital beeps become louder, the sharp shooting pain in my chest comes back. R is holding my wrinkled arthritic hand. I squeeze it.

"Can I go back and live from the previous time" I ask. I had died on the operating table at 23. I did not want to go back to this present.

He stays silent, but I sense the question without him asking. What would you do differently.

I live it. Waking up, Taking a different path. Living not as I lived it, without the same mistakes. No years of corporate misery. No Z. No twisted pain and horrors. a different path. A path not taken. A path without...

I gasp. "No" I shriek. A path without R is a path not worth taking.

"Where would you like to go". he asks again.

"Take me to R. Take me to him again." 

Again he communicates with the speed of thought, without needing words. There is a lot of pain. Are you sure. You have been granted grace, going back would mean a chance to sin again. the next time i see you, you may not get such mercy.

"I will die a thousand times, for one more second with him."

I open my eyes, the doctor is saying my name in that forceful tone they have. The one that can bring you back from the dead. "There you are Mrs. N" he is saying. his face is so young, this doctor. Younger than even R. He and the nurse are working frantically on me, putting tubes, and needles, and oxygen masks on me. "We nearly lost you there maam. You have a lung embolism, which is why you are having trouble breathing" he says kindly. 

"Mama" R says. He is in uniform. his chin has a shadow, dark circles under his eyes, as he holds my hand, deep concern in his eyes. 

I put my hand on his face. My beautiful beautiful boy. "I love you son. Remember, I can die happy knowing that all the best parts of me live on in you". My voice doesn't seem to work. The words are rasping out, wretched. He is crying. The doctor has gestured to the nurse to stop doing what she is doing. 

I reach out and touch Rs cheek. He takes my arm. "Come mama, it's time"

I swing my legs off the bed, and my slippers are on the road outside my childhood home. The wind is in my hair. It is maghrib time. A voice somewhere far away acknowledges that this is not R holding my hand, but I choose to believe this beautiful lie because to contemplate eternity without him is unbearable. 

I walk down the street, and the ground turns to the beach. The wet sand sucks at my bare feet, the beautiful sound of the waves calls to me. And malak ul mauth who bears the face of my child but the eyes of the empty abyss of eternity, leads me on to the end.