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.

Aminah laughed, a high, sharp sound that startled a nearby crow. “Gold? Oh, you poor, sightless fool. You think he’s a beggar because he’s poor? You think this is some tragic romance?”

Aminah leaned in, her breath hot against Zainab’s ear. “He isn’t a beggar, Zainab. He’s a penance. He’s the man who lost everything in a gamble he couldn’t win. He’s not staying with you out of love. He’s staying with you because he’s hiding. He’s using your blindness as his cloak.”

The world went silent. The sounds of the birds, the water, the wind—all of it vanished, replaced by a roaring in Zainab’s ears. She stumbled back, her cane striking a root, nearly sending her sprawling.

“He’s a liar,” Aminah whispered. “Ask him about the ‘Great Fire of the East.’ Ask him why he can’t show his face in the city.”

Zainab fled. She didn’t use her cane; she ran on instinct and agony, her feet finding the path back to the hut through sheer desperation. She sat in the dark for hours, the cold earth seeping into her bones.