didn’t cry. Tears were a currency she had exhausted by the age of ten. She simply felt the world sway.
The wedding was a hollow, rhythmic drumming of footsteps and muffled, broken laughter. It took place in the muddy courtyard of the local magistrate, far from the prying eyes of the village elite. Zainab wore a coarse linen dress: a final insult from her sisters. She felt a stranger’s calloused hand take hers. His grip was firm, surprisingly firm, but her sleeve was in tatters, the fabric fraying against her wrist.
“She’s your problem now,” Malik snapped, with the sound of a door slamming shut after a lifetime.
The man, Yusha, didn’t speak. He led her away from the only home she had ever known, his steps firm even through the mud. They walked for what seemed like hours, leaving behind the scent of jasmine and polished wood, replaced by
