Salma's Sunset Picture

For a whole week, eight-year-old Salma had worked on her picture for the school competition, "My Favourite Place". She had chosen the mosque at the end of her road in Oldham, at sunset.

Every day after school, at the kitchen table, she drew the green dome, the tall minaret and the arched windows glowing yellow. She coloured the sky in stripes of orange, pink and purple, and smudged the pastels softly with her finger.

"Masha Allah," said Dadi, peering over her glasses. "It looks just like the real thing."

On Thursday, the day before the competition, it was finished. Salma left it on the table and went upstairs.

Her little brother Yahya, who was five, loved to help. "That sky needs stars!" he thought. He fetched his shiny star stickers and pressed one on. But it went on crooked. He tried to peel it off, but it was stuck fast. He tugged a little harder, and then...

Rrrrip!

A long tear ran right across the sky, all the way down to the dome.

When Salma came back downstairs, she froze. Her cheeks went hot. Her eyes stung.

"YAHYA! You've RUINED it!"

"I was only helping," said Yahya in a tiny voice.

Salma grabbed her picture, ran upstairs and shut her door hard. At teatime, when Yahya whispered, "Sorry, Salma," she turned her face away and pushed her peas around her plate.

After tea, Salma lay on her bed. Then she heard a rustle. A folded piece of paper slid under her door.

It was a card. On the front was a mosque with a lopsided dome and a sun that was much too big. Inside, in wobbly letters, with one S back to front, it said: SORRY SALMA. I LOVE YOU.

Salma looked at the card for a long time. Part of her did not want to forgive Yahya. Forgiving felt like saying the picture didn't matter. It felt like losing.

Then she remembered something Dadi had told her. The Prophet ﷺ said that whenever someone forgives another person, Allah gives more honour to the one who forgives.

"What's honour?" Salma had asked.

"It means being truly respected," Dadi had said. "When you forgive, Allah gives you more honour, not less."

Salma looked at the wobbly letters again. Yahya had tried so hard. She got up and opened her door.

Yahya was sitting on the top stair in his pyjamas, hugging his knees. Behind him, through the landing window, the real sky was turning orange, pink and purple.

"I wanted your sky to have stars," he said, sniffing.

Salma sat down next to him. "I forgive you, Yahya," she said. "But next time, ask me before you help, okay?"

Yahya nodded so hard his hair bounced.

"Do you want to help me make a new one?" asked Salma.

After Maghrib, Yahya pulled his chair close to Salma's at the kitchen table. Salma drew the dome and the minaret. Yahya coloured the sky, with his tongue poking out.

"Can I put in some stars?" he asked. "Please?"

Salma smiled. "Just three."

Dadi came to watch. Her eyes shone, and she gave Salma's shoulder a gentle squeeze.

The minaret leaned a tiny bit, and the stars were wonky. But Salma liked it best of all. On the back, she wrote her name, and underneath it: Sky and stars by Yahya.

That night, the picture lay safe in her school bag. Salma snuggled under her duvet. Her heart felt calm and light. Through the gap in the curtains, real stars twinkled over the rooftops of Oldham.

Goodnight, Salma. Goodnight, Yahya.