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.

“Stand up, ‘thing,’” her father’s voice grated. He never used her name. To name a thing was to acknowledge its soul.

Zainab rose, her fingers trailing the velvet piping of the armchair. She felt a presence in the room—a smell of woodsmoke, cheap tobacco, and the ozone of a coming storm.

“The mosque has many mouths to feed,” Malik said, his voice dripping with a cruel sort of relief. “One of them has agreed to take you. You are getting married tomorrow. To a beggar. A blind burden for a broken man. A perfect symmetry, don’t you think?”