“The mosque has many mouths to feed,” Malik said, his voice laced with cruel relief. “One of them has agreed to take you in. You will marry tomorrow. A beggar. A blind burden for a broken man. Perfect symmetry, wouldn’t you say?”
The silence that followed was visceral. Zainab felt the blood drain from her limbs, leaving her fingers icy cold. She 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 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.
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