Then one autumn afternoon, a carriage arrived at their home.
Malik stepped out.
Older.
Weaker.
Broken by the very pride he once worshipped.
His wealth was gone. His estate had fallen apart. The daughters he favored had abandoned him.
Now he stood before the daughter he had thrown away.
“Zainab,” he said weakly, using her name for the first time.
She remained still.
