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“It’s not much,” Yusha said. Her voice was a revelation—low, melodic, and devoid of the sharp edges she expected from men. “But the roof holds, and the walls don’t react. You’ll be safe here, Zainab.”
The sound of his name, spoken with such calm gravity, hit her harder than any blow. She sank onto the thin mat, her senses sharpened in space. She heard him move—the clink of a tin cup, the rustle of dry grass, the crack of a match.
“Why?” she whispered into the darkness.
“Why what?”