Zainab was twenty-one years old, yet in the eyes of her father Malik, she was not a daughter but a flaw. Her blindness was not treated as a condition but as an offense against the perfection he demanded from his household. Her sisters, Aminah and Laila, were the jewels of the family—admired, celebrated, and proudly displayed. Zainab existed only as the shadow beneath their brilliance.
The moment that changed everything did not begin with words, but with a scent. A harsh smell of wet earth and smoke drifted through the polished room.
“Stand up, thing,” Malik said sharply.
He never used her name.
To name someone was to recognize their humanity.
Zainab stood slowly, her fingers trailing along the velvet armchair as she steadied herself. She sensed another presence in the room. The stranger smelled of tobacco, damp cloth, and distant rain.
“The mosque feeds many mouths,” Malik announced with cold satisfaction. “One of them has agreed to take you. You will be married tomorrow. A blind burden for a broken man. A perfect arrangement.”
