He wept quietly into his hands, and so did I.
It was the fourth day the Prophet Muhammad ﷺ had not come out for the prayer. I was only thirteen but had memorized the entire Qur’an, so I had been among those leading in his place. You won’t find my name in any famous book, but I was there, in Al-Masjid an-Nabawi — the Prophet’s mosque in Madinah — during the final days of his life.
We had all known something was wrong. My father said that when a Prophet becomes ill, even that illness is part of Allah’s mercy and wisdom. But I didn’t understand why the man who had carried this message for over twenty years, who had led us through wars and peace, was now silent behind those walls.
On that morning, just before Fajr — the dawn prayer — I stepped forward to lead as usual. As I opened my mouth to recite, we heard the curtain move. The Prophet ﷺ had pushed it aside from his room, which was just off the masjid.
We all turned.
I will never forget what I saw.
He stood leaning on two men, unable to walk alone. But his face — his face was glowing. Even after days of sickness, his smile lit up the prayer rows the way the sun rises after a stormy night. Some of the companions began weeping quietly, while others smiled through tears.
He raised his hand to tell us to continue the prayer. And we did, but my heart was trembling the whole time. I could barely focus. I kept thinking, “What does it mean that he came now? That he smiled at us?”
After the prayer, he was gone again behind the curtain. That was the last time many saw him alive.
Later that evening, sitting near the mosque doors, I heard Abu Bakr — the Prophet’s closest companion — speak. He stood before the people, his voice filled with sorrow but firm like a mountain.
He said, “Whoever worships Muhammad — know that Muhammad has passed away. But whoever worships Allah — know that Allah is Ever-Living and never dies.”
The words struck my chest. I felt like something had broken and healed at the same time.
In the days to come, I realized something. Even in his illness, even in his final moment with us, the Prophet ﷺ was teaching. He showed us that prayer must go on. That Allah does not leave us leaderless. That mercy lives in hardship.
Sometimes, I sit under the same date palm tree — now much older than that thirteen-year-old boy I once was — and I remember that morning. I remember the way he smiled. And every time I lead the prayer, I take one small breath before I begin.
And I whisper: “Guide me like he guided us.”
Because even now, he teaches still — through every ayah of the Qur’an, every hadith, and every memory of his patient, loving example.
Story Note: Inspired by the Seerah of the Prophet Muhammad ﷺ’s final illness and passing, as narrated in Sahih al-Bukhari (Hadith 4432) and the accounts of his last prayer, with Abu Bakr’s leadership affirming Allah’s eternal presence.
He wept quietly into his hands, and so did I.
It was the fourth day the Prophet Muhammad ﷺ had not come out for the prayer. I was only thirteen but had memorized the entire Qur’an, so I had been among those leading in his place. You won’t find my name in any famous book, but I was there, in Al-Masjid an-Nabawi — the Prophet’s mosque in Madinah — during the final days of his life.
We had all known something was wrong. My father said that when a Prophet becomes ill, even that illness is part of Allah’s mercy and wisdom. But I didn’t understand why the man who had carried this message for over twenty years, who had led us through wars and peace, was now silent behind those walls.
On that morning, just before Fajr — the dawn prayer — I stepped forward to lead as usual. As I opened my mouth to recite, we heard the curtain move. The Prophet ﷺ had pushed it aside from his room, which was just off the masjid.
We all turned.
I will never forget what I saw.
He stood leaning on two men, unable to walk alone. But his face — his face was glowing. Even after days of sickness, his smile lit up the prayer rows the way the sun rises after a stormy night. Some of the companions began weeping quietly, while others smiled through tears.
He raised his hand to tell us to continue the prayer. And we did, but my heart was trembling the whole time. I could barely focus. I kept thinking, “What does it mean that he came now? That he smiled at us?”
After the prayer, he was gone again behind the curtain. That was the last time many saw him alive.
Later that evening, sitting near the mosque doors, I heard Abu Bakr — the Prophet’s closest companion — speak. He stood before the people, his voice filled with sorrow but firm like a mountain.
He said, “Whoever worships Muhammad — know that Muhammad has passed away. But whoever worships Allah — know that Allah is Ever-Living and never dies.”
The words struck my chest. I felt like something had broken and healed at the same time.
In the days to come, I realized something. Even in his illness, even in his final moment with us, the Prophet ﷺ was teaching. He showed us that prayer must go on. That Allah does not leave us leaderless. That mercy lives in hardship.
Sometimes, I sit under the same date palm tree — now much older than that thirteen-year-old boy I once was — and I remember that morning. I remember the way he smiled. And every time I lead the prayer, I take one small breath before I begin.
And I whisper: “Guide me like he guided us.”
Because even now, he teaches still — through every ayah of the Qur’an, every hadith, and every memory of his patient, loving example.
Story Note: Inspired by the Seerah of the Prophet Muhammad ﷺ’s final illness and passing, as narrated in Sahih al-Bukhari (Hadith 4432) and the accounts of his last prayer, with Abu Bakr’s leadership affirming Allah’s eternal presence.
