In the dark, you pack what little you have: a spare scarf, your braille book, the simple hairpin Yusha once bought you with coins he pretended came from begging.
Your hands move over each object like you’re saying goodbye to the life you thought you’d die in.
Yusha helps you wrap your book carefully, his touch tender.
“You don’t have to be fearless,” he whispers. “Just don’t let fear decide for you.”
Before dawn, you move quietly through the village with the Imam’s men.
You hear the soft crunch of dirt under sandals and boots, the distant call of a rooster, the hush of sleeping homes.
The world smells like smoke and cold earth.
For the first time, you understand that you’ve been living inside a cage without bars, and someone just opened the door.
They take you to a hidden compound outside town, where women cook and men stand watch.
A healer checks Yusha’s bruises and then examines you with gentle hands.
“Your pulse is fast,” she murmurs.
You laugh shakily. “It’s always fast now,” you admit.
That day, the Imam arranges witnesses.
Your marriage is reaffirmed, documented, sealed.
People sign papers while you sit listening, your cane across your lap like a quiet sword.
You don’t see the ink, but you feel the shift in the air: you are no longer disposable. You are protected.
When night falls, Yusha sits beside you and takes your hands.
“We may not survive this,” he says softly.
Your chest tightens, but you force yourself to breathe.
“Don’t say that,” you whisper.
Yusha squeezes your fingers.
“I’m saying it because I won’t lie,” he answers.
Then he leans closer, forehead touching yours. “But if we do survive… I want a life with you that isn’t built on hiding.”
You swallow, tears hot.
“You already gave me a life,” you whisper. “You gave me mornings that weren’t only cruelty.”
You smile through trembling. “You gave me the sun with your words.”
The next morning, you travel toward the capital.
The road is long, and you feel every bump in the cart like a drumbeat toward destiny.
Yusha describes the landscape as you go, but his voice is tenser now, like he’s counting dangers instead of birds.
You hear distant city noise grow louder, a sound like a monster breathing.
When you arrive, the air smells different: crowded, metallic, powerful.
They don’t take you to the palace.
They take you to a safe house near the courthouse, where the Imam’s allies wait.
A man introduces himself as a former clerk, voice nervous.
“I have documents,” he says. “Proof of the governor’s poisoning. Proof of the land theft.”
Your heart hammers, because proof is the only thing stronger than power.
But Ibrahim moves fast too.
That evening, you hear shouting outside the safe house.
Men’s voices. Boots. A knock that isn’t a knock but a threat.
Yusha’s hand tightens around yours.
“Stay close,” he murmurs.
The door bursts open.
And then you hear a voice you haven’t heard since the day your father threw you away.
“Zainab,” your father says, voice thick with disgust.
“You little curse.”
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