Yā Rabb, the cluster closes on the most unforgettable image. The rock with earth. The thin layer of soil. The seed that grew on it for a week of dunyā-life. The heavy rain. The bare rock. Ya Allāh, You painted the photograph. The believer whose sadaqah is poisoned by mann, by adhā, by riyāʾ, has a field on a rock. The dunyā sees a field. The Day reveals stone. And the seed that was planted is washed away with the soil. There is no harvest. Forgive me, ya Rabb. Forgive me for every sadaqah I have given that, when the rain of the Day falls, may be revealed as having been on a rock. The donation that wanted to be tagged. The volunteer hour that wanted to be photographed. The financial help that wanted to be referenced. The Eid gift that wanted to be reciprocated. Each may have been earth on stone, and the rain is coming. Audit me, ya Allāh, while there is still time to repent. Make me identify which of my past sadaqahs may have had this defect, and let me give again, this time silently, this time to soil You alone see. And from this day, train me into the discipline of the hidden seed: the left hand that does not know the right; the donation that no one will tag; the kindness that even the recipient does not know I sourced; the support that I will go to my grave without anyone knowing about. Build me, ya Rabb, a field that, when the rain of the Day falls, is found bursting with grain, not bare with stone. The seven-hundred-grain field. Multiplied beyond, by Your faḍl. The investment with no ceiling, in soil You watered Yourself, of seeds You preserved Yourself, with a yield You wrote Yourself. Bring me back to that field. Āmīn ya Razzāq, ya Karīm, ya Satīr.