The wedding was a hollow percussion of footsteps and muffled, breathless laughter. It took place in the muddy courtyard of the local magistrate, far from the eyes of the village elite. Zainab wore a rustic linen dress: a final insult from her sisters. She felt a stranger’s calloused hand grasp hers. The grip was firm, surprisingly firm, but the sleeve was torn, the fabric frayed against her wrist.
“Now the problem is yours,” Malik snapped, in a sound like a door slamming shut after an eternity.
The man, Yusha, said nothing. He carried her away from the only home she had ever known, his steps firm even in the mud. They walked for what seemed like an eternity, leaving behind the scent of jasmine and polished wood, replaced by the salty rot of the riverbanks and the dense, damp air of the surroundings.
His house was a shack that groaned 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, melodious, and without the harsh accents she expected to hear from men. “But the ceiling can hold, and the walls won’t react to you. You’ll be safe here, Zainab.”
The sound of his name, uttered with such silent gravity, struck her with more force than any blow. She collapsed onto a thin mattress, her senses hypersensitive to space. She heard him move: the clinking of a tin mug, the rustling of dry grass, the lighting of a match.
That night, he didn’t touch her. He threw a heavy, perfumed woolen blanket over his shoulders and retreated to the door.
“Why?”, he whispered into the darkness.
“Why what?”
See the continuation on the next page.
