I was raised to worship fire. My family—they revered the flame as if it held all answers. My father... he adored me, shielded me, kept me hidden, as if the world itself might burn me. So, I grew up tending fire, feeding it, watching it dance and crackle, day after day. But something gnawed at me, something I dared not say out loud. Why did we worship fire? Was it the fire that gave us water, that nourished our crops? Why bow to something that could burn out as easily as a match?

Then, one day, fate slipped its chains off my wrists. My father sent me out, and for the first time, I saw a world beyond flames. People... rituals... lives. And there they were: Christians, worshipping in a way I had never seen. Their devotion... it stirred something in me. Their words spoke of God, not a flame. And I began to wonder... maybe I could find the answers in their faith.

So I asked them—where does this faith of yours come from? They said, “Syria.” And at that moment, something lit inside me, a spark I could no longer ignore. I wanted to go to Syria. Somehow, I knew that the truth I was seeking lay there.

I didn’t know then how far that spark would take me.

But when my father found out, he was furious. I was dragged back, locked up like a caged animal. And for a time, I thought my journey had ended before it began. But then, some traders arrived—traders from Syria—and I knew, this was my chance. I escaped, slipping away with them, leaving behind the life I knew. Little did I know... it was only the beginning.

Syria was everything and nothing like I’d imagined. The people, the faces, the sounds, so foreign, yet strangely familiar. I asked around, “Who is the most pious here?” And they pointed me to a priest. Ah, I thought, finally, a guide. But I was wrong... oh, how wrong I was. He was a thief in holy robes, a man who exploited the poor, hoarding the charity he claimed to collect. When he died, I couldn’t keep silent. The people cursed his name and crucified him. And yet, despite the ugliness, my heart still believed. I moved on.

I found another priest—a righteous one this time. I could see it in his eyes, in his actions. Under him, I grew stronger in faith. But he, too, grew old. And as he lay dying, I asked him, “Where do I go now?” He sent me to Mosul, then the journey took me to Nisibis, and from there to Amuriyah, where I found yet another priest.

And so my life became a chain of searches, of hope rising and falling like the sun. And then... the final priest said something that turned my world upside down.

“Salman,” he said, his voice weak but sure, “it is time. A Prophet is coming, the final one. He will emerge in the land of the Arabs.” He described this Prophet to me, like a vision taking form. “He will migrate to a place between lands of black stones, lush with date palms. He will accept gifts but never charity. And between his shoulders, there is a mark, the Seal of Prophethood.”

His words were like an arrow shot through my heart. A Prophet. Coming in my time, my age. I had to find him—I had to. But how? All I had were the clothes on my back, my hands, my hope. I joined a group of traders heading for Arabia, trading all I had for the promise of reaching this land. But they betrayed me, sold me into slavery. Yes, even the path to truth can be lined with cruelty. I was bought by a man from Yathrib, a Jewish merchant. Yathrib... could it be? Could this be the land? And then, one day, I heard whispers. “Muhammad,” they said, “the man who calls himself a Prophet... he’s here, in Quba.” My heart raced—I couldn’t breathe. This was it. After all those years, all those sacrifices... he was here.

The next day, I went to him. I carried a little food, and I told him, “This is charity.” He took it, but he didn’t eat—he gave it to his companions instead. My heart leapt. The first sign. The next day, I brought more food. “This is a gift,” I said. This time, he ate. The second sign. My heart was racing. And then... There was only one sign left.

Finally, I approached him, trembling. He was attending a funeral, his shoulders wrapped in a shawl. I looked for that mark, that seal between his shoulders, the one I had dreamed of, the one that held the answer to every question I’d ever had. Sensing my gaze, he loosened his shawl... and there it was—the Seal of Prophethood. I fell to my knees, overcome, tears streaming down my face. I kissed that mark, feeling as though my heart might burst. He turned to me, and I told him everything—every journey, every betrayal, every moment of hope and despair. He listened, and he understood. How could he not? He was the answer to all my prayers.

Later, he asked me to write a contract for my freedom. But my master set a steep price—three hundred date palms and forty ounces of silver. How could I ever manage that? But the Prophet ﷺ... he turned to his companions, and they rallied. They brought saplings, one by one, until we had enough. When it was time, the Prophet himself planted those trees with his own blessed hands. And every single one of them flourished.

As for the silver... one day, the Prophet ﷺ handed me a piece of gold the size of an egg. He smiled, “This will cover it.” And it did. By the will of Allah, it did. I was free. And so, I, Salman al-Farisi, a man who had traveled across lands, who had known slavery, now stood here, free, a Muslim. My journey ended at the feet of the Prophet, who guided me, not with force, but with love, mercy, and wisdom. My story is not unique. There are countless others, drawn from distant lands, who found the truth in his light. We were not alone. We were never alone.