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The Right Step Beneath Isfahan’s Sky

Prophet Muhammad (peace and blessings be upon him)Said "If you want to put on your shoes, put on the right shoe first; and if you want to take them off, take the left one first. Let the right shoe be the first to be put on and the last to be taken off." Sahih Bukhari 5855 Meaning of the Hadith: The Prophet ﷺ taught Muslims to begin with the right side when doing honorable or clean actions—such as wearing shoes, dressing, making wudu, combing hair, etc. In this hadith, he instructs: When putting on shoes: start with the right. When removing shoes: remove the left first, so that the right remains on longer. Wisdom and Benefits: It reflects the Prophet’s love for order, etiquette, and mindfulness in small daily actions. It’s an easy way of gaining reward by following his Sunnah. It builds a habit of remembering Allah and following the Prophet ﷺ even in simple routines. (Left Shoe at Dusk, A Right Step at Dawn) In the blue-mosaic mornings of Isfahan, when the Zayandeh River breathed softly and the bridges hummed with footsteps, a small habit began to untangle a large sorrow. Samira lived in a narrow lane where jasmine leaned into windows and kettles sang before dawn. She was ordinary by every measure, except for the storm inside her chest. That week, her days felt misaligned, like doors opening the wrong way. She missed buses by seconds, spilled tea on letters meant to mend old rifts, and returned home each night with the weight of unfinished prayers. One evening, as the sun stitched gold into the domes, she visited her grandmother’s old house to sort memories left behind. The house held dust like a gentle secret. On a low shelf sat a pair of worn shoes, leather creased by years of faithful walking. A note rested between them, written in a steady hand long gone. It carried a saying she had heard before, but never listened to. Prophet Muhammad (peace and blessings be upon him) Said "If you want to put on your shoes, put on the right shoe first; and if you want to take them off, take the left one first. Let the right shoe be the first to be put on and the last to be taken off." The words felt simple, almost small. Yet the room quieted, as if waiting. The next morning, Isfahan woke to a drizzle that softened stone and sound. Samira stood at her door, shoes in hand. She smiled at the thought of how habits can be prayers wearing plain clothes. She put on the right shoe first. The act felt ceremonial, a tiny bow to order in a world that often rushed past meaning. On the street, she met Hamdan at the bakery line, flour dusting the air like snowfall. He offered his place with a nod. She accepted without apology. At the bridge, Lujain paused to help an elderly woman with a stubborn umbrella. Samira joined, hands steady, heart light. The river mirrored the sky, and the sky seemed to listen. Later, in a quiet courtyard, she saw Faris struggling to apologize to his sister over a cracked teacup and a larger silence. Samira did not speak much. She only waited, the way good things wait. The apology found its feet. At dusk, she returned home and removed the left shoe first. The day exhaled. The city, too, seemed to settle into itself, bricks remembering their place, stars arriving on time. It wasn’t magic that changed her days. It was alignment. A sunnah tucked into leather and laces, teaching her that beginnings matter, that order can cradle mercy, that the right step can teach the heart how to walk. In Isfahan, beneath tiled heavens and human bridges, Samira learned that faith does not always thunder. Sometimes it whispers from the ground up, reminding us that even the smallest choices can teach the soul how to stand, how to move, and how to return home whole.