Yā Rabb, You legislated justice all the way to the deathbed. You did not allow the final words of a believer to escape Your law of qisṭ. Two just witnesses. If doubt, hold them after salāh and make them swear. And the oath You dictated, ya Allah, is what should be tattooed on every Muslim's chest: 'we will not sell our testimony for any price, not even for a close relative.' That word, dhā qurbā, struck me. You knew that the closest relatives are exactly the people who corrupt testimony at deathbeds. The favorite son who whispers a different waṣiyyah. The favored daughter who hides the original. The trusted brother who reinterprets the dying breath. You stood guard at the moment when family love most easily slips into family theft. And You said: not even for them. Forgive me, ya Allāh, for the waṣiyyah I have not yet written. For the years I have lived assuming there will be time. For the absence of two just witnesses I have not named. Move me this week, ya Rabb. Make me write it. Make me name them. Make me clear: who gets what, what charity flows out of my wealth, what debts must be settled first, what relationships need final words from me. Place the waṣiyyah in a place my family will find. And ya Allah, train me to live every transaction in the same posture. To act today as if witnesses were watching, because You are watching. To know that the man who lives in awareness of his deathbed is the man who never needs to rewrite a deathbed in panic. Let the verse change my Tuesday afternoon as much as it changes the night I die. Āmīn ya Ḥakam.