YOU MARRIED A “BEGGAR” BECAUSE YOU WERE BORN BLIND… THEN HE SAID ONE NAME AND YOUR WHOLE LIFE CHANGED
Yusha’s voice hardens. “He set us up,” he says.
The Imam nods.
“I believe he thought you would die quietly,” he says.
Then he adds, “But he underestimated what love can do.”
You tremble at that word, love.
You never thought you’d be the heroine of any story.
You were born blind, raised in contempt, tossed into the arms of a “beggar.”
And yet here you are, holding the hand of a hunted prince while an imam speaks of overthrowing a corrupt ruler.
You agree to leave before sunrise.
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.”
Your lungs seize.
The safe house suddenly feels too small for your past and your present to fit inside.
You whisper, “Baba…” and the word tastes like ash.
Your father steps closer, and you smell sweat and cheap tobacco.
“Ibrahim is generous,” he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice. “He said if I bring you back, he’ll forgive my debts.”
Your stomach turns.
Yusha’s voice goes deadly calm. “Touch her and you die,” he says.
Your father laughs.
“A beggar threatening me,” he mocks.
Then he leans toward you, voice low. “You think you found love? You found a trap.”
He spits the words: “Give her to me.”
You tremble, but you do something you’ve never done.
You step forward.
Your cane taps the floor, and the sound is small but powerful, like a gavel.
“No,” you say.
Your voice shakes, but it doesn’t break.
“No more.”
Your father goes quiet, shocked by your refusal.
“You don’t talk to me like that,” he snarls.
You lift your chin. “You stopped being my father the day you called me ‘that thing,’” you say.
Your words come out sharper than you knew you had. “I don’t belong to you.”
For a moment, no one moves.
Then Ibrahim’s voice slides into the room like smoke.
“Touching,” he says. “Very touching.”
Your skin crawls as you feel his presence, even without sight.
He walks closer, and you smell that expensive cologne again.
“So this is the blind wife,” he murmurs. “The one who can’t see the knives coming.”
Yusha’s body stiffens beside you.
Ibrahim laughs softly. “Relax,” he says. “I’m not here to harm her.”
Then his tone changes. “I’m here to harm you.”
Everything happens fast.
You hear a scuffle, a shout, a crash.
Someone grabs your arm and yanks, hard.
Your cane clatters to the floor, and panic explodes in your chest.
You reach for Yusha, but your fingers catch only air.
“Zainab!” Yusha roars, the sound ripped from somewhere primal.
You scream, and for the first time you don’t care who hears.
Hands drag you toward the doorway. Your feet stumble. Your breath tears.
Then, suddenly, the grip on you loosens.
