Zainab reached out, her fingers trembling as they traced the contours of his face. She found the bridge of his nose, the hollows of his cheeks, the wetness of his eyes. He wasn’t the monster her sister had described. He was a man shattered by his own humanity, trying to glue the pieces back together with hers.
“You should have told me,” she said.
“I was afraid that if you knew I was a doctor, you would ask me to fix the one thing I cannot,” he choked out. “I cannot give you your sight, Zainab. I can only give you my life.”
The tension in the room snapped. Zainab pulled him closer, burying her face in the crook of his neck. The hut was small, the walls were thin, and the world outside was cruel, but in the center of the storm, they were no longer ghosts.
Years passed.
