the briny rot of the riverbanks and the thick, damp air of the outskirts.
His home was a shack that sighed with every gust of wind. It smelled of damp earth and old soot.
“It’s not much,” Yusha said. Her voice was a revelation: low, melodic, and without the harsh accents she expected from men. “But the roof will hold, and the walls won’t fight back. You’ll be safe here, Zainab.”
The sound of his name, uttered with such quiet gravity, struck her harder than any blow. She collapsed onto a thin mat, her senses hypersensitive to the surrounding space. She heard him move: the clinking of a tin cup, the rustling of dry grass, the striking of a match.
That night, he didn’t touch her. He threw a heavy, wool-scented blanket over her shoulders and retreated to the doorway.
“Why?” she whispered into the darkness.
“Why what?”
Why are
