The wedding was a hollow percussion of footsteps and muffled, jagged laughter. It took place in the muddy courtyard of the local magistrate, far from the eyes of the village elite. Zainab wore a dress of coarse linen—a final insult from her sisters. She felt the calloused hand of a stranger take hers. His grip was firm, surprisingly steady, but his sleeve was in tatters, the fabric fraying against her wrist.
"That's your problem now," Malik replied, the sound of a door slamming on a life.
The man, Yusha, didn't speak. He led her away from the only home she had ever known, his steps sure even in the mud. They walked for what seemed like hours, leaving behind the scent of jasmine and polished wood, replaced by the salty decay of the riverbanks and the heavy, humid air of the outskirts.
Their house was a hut that sighed with every gust of wind. It smelled of damp earth and old soot.
“It’s nothing much,” Yusha said. Her voice was a revelation—low, melodious, and devoid of the jagged edges she’d grown accustomed to from men. “But the roof is holding, and the walls aren’t responding. You’ll be safe here, Zainab.”
The sound of his name, spoken with such quiet gravity, struck her harder than any blow. She slumped onto a thin rug, her senses hypersensitive to the space. She heard it move—the clink of a tin cup, the rustle of dry grass, the striking of a match.
That night, he did not touch her. He placed a heavy, wool-scented blanket over her shoulders and withdrew to the threshold.
"Why?" she murmured in the darkness.
