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It is said that on certain nights, when the wind is favorable, you can still hear the sound of a man describing the stars to a woman who has seen them more clearly than anyone else.
Fire had taken control of their past, darkness had shaped their present, but together they had sculpted a future that no flame could touch and no shadow could hide.
“My master is a cruel man,” the messenger said softly. “If I tell him who you are, he will kill you to save his pride. You cannot owe your son’s life to a murderer.”
“So, why should I stay?” asked Zainab.
“Because the child,” said the messenger, pointing to the bed, “is not like his father. He spoke of the angel as he fell asleep. He has a heart that has not yet been tempered by the city.”
The messenger reached out and took the silver scalpel from the table. He didn’t use it on Yusha. Instead, he walked over to the fire and threw it on the embers.
“The doctor is dead,” said the messenger, looking Yusha in the eye. He died in the fire years ago. This man is just a beggar who got lucky with a needle. I’ll tell the governor we found a wandering monk. We’ll leave at noon.
When the carriage finally stopped, leaving deep footprints in the mud, the silence that returned to the house was different. It was no longer the silence of peace; it was the silence of a truce.
Zainab’s father, Malik, watched the departure from the door of the small hut where he now lived. He had seen the royal coat of arms. He had seen the doctor’s hands. He approached. To the main house, dragging himself with a pathetic step.
“You could have negotiated,” Malik hissed as he reached the porch. “You could have asked for your land back. Give me mine back! You had your son’s life in your hands, and you let him go for free?”
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Zainab turned to her father. She didn’t need to see him to feel the withering greed emanating from his pores.
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