The rain in the valley did not fall; it drifted, a cold, grey shroud that clung to the jagged stones of the ancestral estate. Inside the house, the air tasted of stale incense and the metallic tang of unwashed silver. Zainab sat in the corner of the parlor, her world a tapestry of textures and echoes. She knew the precise creak of the floorboard that signaled her father’s approach—a heavy, rhythmic thud that carried the weight of a man who viewed his own lineage as a collapsing monument.

“The fire,” she whispered. “Aminah mentioned a fire.”

“My past burning,” he said. “I have nothing left of that man, Zainab. Only the knowledge of how to heal. I’ve been treating the sick in the village at night, in secret. That’s where the extra copper comes from. That’s how I bought your medicine last week.”

Zainab reached out, her fingers trembling as they traced the contours of his face. She found the bridge of his nose, the hollows of his cheeks, the wetness of his eyes. He wasn’t the monster her sister had described. He was a man shattered by his own humanity, trying to glue the pieces back together with hers.

“You should have told me,” she said.

“I was afraid that if you knew I was a doctor, you would ask me to fix the one thing I cannot,” he choked out. “I cannot give you your sight, Zainab. I can only give you my life.”