Zainab felt the blood drain from her hands.
She did not cry.
Her tears had run dry long ago.
The wedding was brief and empty. It took place in the muddy courtyard of the magistrate, far from the elegant gatherings her sisters would someday enjoy. Zainab wore a rough linen dress, a final act of humiliation from her family.
A stranger’s hand took hers.
The grip was firm and warm, though his sleeve was torn.
“She is your problem now,” Malik shouted before the gates slammed shut behind them.
The man’s name was Yusha.
He did not speak much during the long walk that followed. They traveled beyond the clean streets of the wealthy district toward the damp air of the riverbanks.
Their home was a fragile hut that creaked in the wind.
“It isn’t much,” Yusha said quietly, “but the roof holds. And you will be safe here.”
He said her name gently.
Zainab had almost forgotten what it sounded like.
That night, he did not touch her. He placed a thick blanket across her shoulders and slept by the doorway.
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