Autumn in Tokyo came creeping in faster and faster. Before she knew it, three months had passed since Riza had set foot in the Land of the Rising Sun and begun building a life there. Time, which had initially felt slow and torturous, now raced by like a geometric sequence.
Her once-unfamiliar surroundings had gradually become a second home. The Japanese that had once seemed like an unbreakable string of code in Professor Sato's Functional Analysis class was slowly becoming easier for her to speak and understand.
One by one, the things that had occupied her list of curiosities were checked off completely. Riza had seen the elegance of the last cherry-blossom petals up close, explored the corridors of the University of Tokyo beneath ginkgo leaves turning golden, and finally gazed upon the magnificent beauty of Mount Fuji standing solidly in the distance. Sights she had spent years admiring only through her phone screen.
Yet beneath all her achievements and smooth adaptation, there was one thing still left behind in a corner of her heart.
An intangible puzzle that had continued dancing through Riza's mind for the past three months. Who was the owner of the melodious voice that called the adhan at the small mosque near her dormitory?
Today, beneath the evening sky beginning to turn golden orange, the mystery finally found its answer.
Riza's steps came to a halt in the mosque's stone courtyard when a warm-faced elderly woman greeted her. The cool autumn air blew softly, playing with the edge of Riza's headscarf.
"Sweetheart, Grandma's noticed you stop by this mosque pretty often, haven't I?" the old woman greeted her warmly.
From her gentle features, the fine wrinkles around her eyes, and her speech, so polite and carefully composed, it was clear that she was a native Japanese woman.
Usually, local residents who crossed paths with Riza would immediately greet her in English because of her appearance. But this grandmother was different. She spoke to Riza directly in warm Japanese.
Riza offered a friendly smile and returned the greeting in Japanese, which she now spoke far more fluently and confidently. "Yes, Grandma. My place is on the way from here to the mosque, so I usually stop by before going back to the dormitory to stretch my legs and pray."
The old woman stopped walking and examined Riza's facial features closely. Her calm eyes shone with curiosity.
"You're not originally from Japan, are you? Are you Arab?" the old woman asked with complete certainty.
Riza let out a soft laugh, a reflexive reaction she had grown used to. "No, Grandma. I'm Indonesian. I'm a graduate student at the university across the street."
"Oh... from Indonesia," the old woman murmured, nodding along before smiling even more broadly. "But your features look Arab. Your nose is high and your eyes are sharp. You're very beautiful."
"A lot of people say that, Grandma," Riza replied shyly as she adjusted the position of her backpack. "But I'm completely Indonesian. I don't have any Arab ancestry at all."
"Then you were simply blessed to be born that way," the old woman said gently, touching Riza's coat sleeve with a mother's affection. "You should be very grateful for the beauty Allah has given you."
"Yes, Grandma. Thank God," Riza replied sincerely, her chest warmed by the honest compliment.
Just as their warm conversation faded, a soft vibration echoed from inside the mosque. The gentle internal loudspeaker suddenly trembled, then began singing the opening notes of the call to prayer.
Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar...
The Asr call to prayer filled the air. The voice that had been such a great mystery to Riza for the past three months had returned. It flowed out crystal clear, trembling softly with extraordinarily precise tajwid, cutting through the evening silence and slipping straight into the depths of Riza's chest.
Every time she heard that recitation, the exhaustion from staring at stacks of mathematical formulas in the faculty melted away without a trace.
The grandmother beside her stopped moving and rubbed her own chest as she exhaled, touched. "It's beautiful, isn't it? His voice. It touches our hearts and even makes us want to shed tears..."
Riza nodded quickly. Her curious spirit, which she had managed to suppress for weeks, suddenly soared. This was her golden opportunity. This grandmother seemed to be a senior member of the congregation who knew the mosque's ins and outs.
"Mashallah, yes, Grandma," Riza said, tilting her head. "Is he a new muezzin, Grandma?"
The old woman turned to Riza, then whispered as though sharing a small secret. "From the rumors going around among the worshippers, apparently he's just a temporary replacement muezzin. The elderly man who usually gives the call to prayer is being treated in the hospital because of his old age and illness. Fortunately, someone was willing to fill in for him temporarily."
"I see, Grandma..." Riza nodded in understanding, taking in this new information.
"But so far, none of the women in the congregation know for certain who he is personally," the old woman continued. "Still, the women from the religious study group were talking about it yesterday... many of them said the replacement was already married."
"Already married??"
The words slipped from Riza's lips before her mind could slam on the brakes. Her voice rose slightly, filled with unmistakable shock.
The expectations and beautiful image she had carefully arranged in her mind all this time suddenly shattered into pieces.
The young, handsome, unattached man who had existed in her imagination all this time abruptly evaporated into thin air.