“What do you mean?” Malik asked, his voice shaking.
“We’re different now,” he said, rising. He didn’t need a cane. He moved through the rows of lavender and rosemary with fluid confidence. “We built a world with the scraps you gave us. You gave us nothing, and it turned out to be the most fertile land we could wish for.”
Yusha appeared at the door, his hair graying at his temples and his eyes steady. He didn’t look like a beggar, nor a disgraced doctor. He looked like a man who felt at home.
“You can stay in the shed,” Zainab said to Yusha, her voice devoid of malice, filled only with cold, clear compassion. Feed him. Give him a blanket. Treat him with the kindness he never gave us.
She turned toward the house, and her hand met Yusha’s with unerring precision.
As they entered, leaving the broken old man in the garden, the sun began to set. For anyone else, it was a routine change of light. But for Zainab, it was the sensation of a cool breeze.
Yusha headed for the entrance, his face hardened, adopting the mask of the doctor he had once been. He opened it and found a man soaked by the freezing rain, wearing the muddy livery of a royal messenger. Behind him, a black carriage shook, its lanterns flickering like dying stars.
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