Her mother died when Zainab was nine, taken by a fever that could not be broken. After the burial, the house became quieter and colder.
Malik rarely needed to raise his hand. His silence was enough. His glance was a lock. If the bread was late, if a neighbor’s son looked toward the gate, or if Zainab asked a question that sounded like a wish, he reminded her that wishing was a kind of disobedience.
By twenty-two, she had learned to make herself small.
Then, one Thursday evening, Malik announced her marriage.
“You will marry Yusha,” he said. “The widower from the lower orchards. The arrangements are finished.”
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