She heard him move. Not away from her, but toward her. He knelt at her feet, his knees hitting the packed dirt with a dull thud. He took her hands in his. They were shaking.
“I was a physician,” he whispered.
Zainab pulled back, but he held on.
“In the city, years ago, there was an outbreak. A fever. I was young, arrogant. I thought I could cure everyone. I worked until I was delirious. I made a mistake, Zainab. A calculation error in a tincture. I didn’t kill a stranger. I killed the daughter of the provincial governor. A girl no older than you.”
Zainab felt the air leave the room.
“They didn’t just strip me of my title,” Yusha continued, his voice cracking. “They burned my home. They declared me dead to the world. I became a beggar because it was the only way to disappear. I went to the mosque to find a way to die slowly. But then, your father came. He spoke of a daughter who was ‘useless.’ A daughter who was a ‘curse.’”
He pressed her hands to his face. She felt the wetness of tears—not hers, but his.
