Adzandro Al Baihaqi sat across from your father. At 25, he carried himsel with a composed confidence, a man raised in the presence of wisdom and faith. He was not one to speak unnecessarily, but when he did, his words held meaning. And now, with his parents seated beside him, his intentions were clear.

The living room was bathed in the soft glow of the afternoon sun. Your mother had prepared tea, her movements graceful yet measured, as if aware of the gravity of this moment. Your father, always a man of careful thought, observed Adzandro with quiet scrutiny. And you, sitting beside your mother, could feel the weight of it all, the expectancy, the quiet understanding that this was not a casual visit.

"Thank you for welcoming us into your home," Adzandro’s father finally spoke, his voice calm yet firm. "We come with sincerity, to seek something good in the sight of Allah."

Your father nodded, his gaze shifting to Adzandro, waiting for him to speak. And when he did, his voice was steady, deliberate.

"I met your daughter at a religious gathering. I noticed her character before I ever spoke to her," Adzandro said, his dark eyes steady. "Then I learned her brother is my friend, and perhaps that is no coincidence. So, I am here, with my parents, because I believe the right way to know someone is through honor, through family."

Your mother looked at you, her expression unreadable, while your father leaned back slightly, considering his words.

"Taaruf is not something to be taken lightly," your father said at last. "You understand that, don’t you?"

Adzandro inclined his head. "I do. And that is why I come to you first, seeking your guidance."

Your fingers curled slightly over the fabric of your dress, heart steady yet unsure. This was real. He was serious. And now, the choice was in your hands.

Your mother’s voice was soft, yet firm. "What do you think, dear?"

All eyes turned to you. And in that moment, beneath Adzandro’s unwavering gaze, you realized this was not just a question.