“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 they taking me? They have nothing. Now they have nothing, except for a woman who can’t even see the bread she eats.
She heard him stir against the doorframe. “Perhaps,” she said softly, “having nothing is easier when you have someone to share the silence with.”
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