—It's not much —Yusha said. Her voice was a revelation: low, melodic, and without the harsh accents she expected from men—. But the roof will hold, and the walls won't respond. Here you'll be safe, Zainab.
The sound of your name, pronounced with such silent gravity, had the force of any blow. He collapsed onto a thin mat, his senses hypersensitive to space. He heard it move: the clinking of a tin cup, the rustling of dry grass, the lighting of a match.
This night, he didn't touch her. A heavy, wool-scented blanket echoed over her shoulders, and she retreated into the shade.
“Why?” he whispered into the darkness.
"Why?"
Why are they bringing me here? There's nothing to be done. Now you have nothing, except a woman who can't see the panel coming.
He heard it against the doorframe. "Perhaps," he said softly, "having nothing is easier when you have someone to share the silence with."
The following weeks were a slow despair. At her father's house, Zainab was alive in a state of sensory deprivation, forced to stay still, silent, invisible. Yusha did the opposite. He transformed himself in her eyes, but not through simple description. He drew the world in his mind with the precision of a master.
"The sun isn't just yellow today, Zainab," they said while sitting by the river. "It's the color of a peach just before it bruises. It's heavy. It feels like a hot coin on the palm of your hand."
He taught her the language of the wind: the difference between the whisper of the poplars and the dry rattle of the eucalyptus. He brought her wild herbs, guiding her fingers over the serrated leaves of the mint and the velvety skin of the sage. For the first time in your life, darkness was not a prison; it was a canvas.
She met him listening to the rhythm of his retreat every night. She met him reaching out to touch the rough canvas of his tunic, her fingers holding onto the constant rustling of his heart. She was falling in love with a ghost, a man defined by his poverty and his bondage.
But shadows always lengthen before they disappear.
Un martedì, potenziato dalla sua nuova autonomia, Zainab lleva una cesta alle fueras del pueblo per raccogliere verdure. Sabé la camino: forty paces to the large stone, a sharp left turn upon perceiving the aroma of the tannery, e then straight ahead until the air cooled by the stream.
—Look at this— a voice whispered. It was a voice like broken glass. —The queen of the beggars went for a walk.
Zainab froze. “Aminah?”
Her sister invaded her personal space; the aroma of rose water was empalagoso and sofocante. "You look pathetic, Zainab. Of course. To think she traded a house for a dirty girl and a man who colors the sewer."
—I am happy— Zainab said, her voice trembling but certain. —I am treated like gold. Something our father never understands.
Aminah laughed, a high-pitched, sharp laugh that startled a nearby raven. "Gold? Oh, you poor, naive blind fool. Do you think he's a beggar because he's poor? Do you think this is a tragic romance?"
Aminah leans against Zainab's fear. "He's not a beggar, Zainab. It's a penance. He's the man who lost everything in a fight he couldn't win. He doesn't stay with me because of love. He stays with me because he hides. Use your blindfold as a cloak."
The world was silent. The sounds of birds, water, wind… everything faded away, replaced by a roar in Zainab's ears. She staggered in front of herself, her little stick struck a root, almost exploding.
"He's a liar," Aminah whispered. "Ask him about the Great Eastern Fire. Ask him why he can't appear in the city."
