Her father married his daughter, blind from birth, to a beggar, and what happened next shocked many. Zainab had never seen the world, but she felt its cruelty with every breath. She was born blind into a family that valued beauty above all else. Her two sisters were admired for their beautiful eyes and graceful figures, while Zainab was treated like a burden: a shameful secret hidden behind closed doors. Her mother died when she was only five years old, and from then on, her father changed. He became bitter, resentful, and cruel, especially to her. He never called her by her name. He called her "that thing." He didn't want her at the family table, nor out when guests came. He believed she was cursed, and when she turned twenty-one, he made a decision that would destroy what little remained of his already broken heart. One morning, he entered her little room, where she sat silently, stroking the worn pages of a Braille book, and dropped a folded piece of cloth into her lap. "You're getting married tomorrow," he said flatly. She froze. The words made no sense. Married? To whom? "He's a beggar from the mosque," her father continued. "You're blind. He's poor. A perfect match." She felt the blood drain from her face. She wanted to scream, but no sound came out. She had no choice. Her father had never given her one. The next day, she was married in a hasty, modest ceremony. She never saw his face, of course, and no one described it to her. Her father pushed her toward the man and told her to take his arm. She obeyed like a ghost in her body. People chuckled. "The blind girl and the beggar." After the ceremony, her father handed her a small bag of clothes and pushed her back toward the man. "Now it's your problem," he said, walking away without looking back. The beggar, whose name was Yusha, led her silently down the road. He didn't speak for a long time. They reached a small, dilapidated hut on the outskirts of the village. It smelled of damp earth and smoke. "It's nothing special," Yusha said kindly. "But you'll be safe here." She sat on the old mat inside, barely holding back tears. This was her life now: a blind girl married to a beggar, living in a mud hut and clinging to a fragile hope. But that first night, something strange happened. Yusha prepared her tea with careful, gentle hands. He gave her his blanket and slept by the door, like a guard dog protecting his queen. He spoke to her as if he cared: he asked her what stories she liked, what dreams she had, what foods made her smile. No one had ever asked her those questions before. The days turned into weeks. Every morning, Yusha accompanied her to the river, describing the sun, the birds, the trees with such poetry that she began to feel she could see them through his words. He sang to her while he did the laundry and told her stories of stars and distant lands at night. She laughed for the first time in years. Her heart began to slowly open. And in that strange little hut, something unexpected happened: Zainab fell in love. One afternoon, as she reached out to take his hand, she asked softly, "Have you always been a beggar?" He hesitated. Then softly replied, "Not always." But he said nothing more. And she didn't press. Until one day she went to the market alone to buy vegetables. Yusha had given her precise instructions, and she memorized every step. But halfway there, someone grabbed her arm violently. "Blind mouse!" a voice spat. It was her sister, Aminah. "Are you still alive? Are you still playing the beggar's wife?" Zainab felt tears welling up in her eyes, but she remained upright. "I'm happy," she said. Aminah laughed cruelly. "You don't even know what this is. It's useless. Just like you." Then she whispered something that shocked her. "He's not a beggar, Zainab. They lied to you." Zainab staggered home, confused and shaken. She waited until nightfall, and when Yusha returned, she asked again, this time firmly. "Tell me the truth. Who are you really?" It was then that he knelt before her, took her hands, and said, "You should never have known. But I can't lie to you anymore." Her heart was pounding. What happens next will change everything. Like this comment and then check out the link.

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—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.

She heard him pressing against the doorframe. "Perhaps," she 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 crow. "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."

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