Their home was a hut that sighed with every gust of wind. It smelled of damp earth and ancient soot.
“It’s not much,” Yusha said. His voice was a revelation—low, melodic, and devoid of the jagged edges she had come to expect from men. “But the roof holds, and the walls don’t talk back. You’ll be safe here, Zainab.”
The sound of her name, spoken with such quiet gravity, hit her harder than any blow. She sank onto a thin mat, her senses hyper-attuned to the space. She heard him moving—the clink of a tin cup, the rustle of dry grass, the striking of a match.
That night, he did not touch her. He draped a heavy, wool-scented blanket over her shoulders and retreated to the threshold.
“Why?” she whispered into the dark.
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