“With a beggar from the mosque,” her father added.
“You’re blind. He’s poor. They make a good couple.”
She felt the blood drain from her face.
She wanted to scream, but she couldn’t utter a single word.
She had no choice.
Her father never gave her any.
The next day, they married her in a quick and simple ceremony.
Of course, she never saw the man’s face—and no one dared describe it to her.
Her father pushed her toward him and told her to take his arm.
She obeyed, like a ghost trapped in her own body.
People chuckled, murmuring,
“The blind woman and the beggar.”
After the wedding, her father handed her a small bag with some clothes and pushed her back towards the man.
“Now it’s your problem,” he said, and left without looking back.
The beggar, named Yusha, silently led her along the path. He didn’t speak for a long time.
They arrived at a dilapidated hut on the edge of the village. It smelled of damp earth and smoke.
“It’s not much,” Yusha said softly, “but you’ll be safe here.”
She sat on an old mat, holding back her tears.
This was her life now: a young blind woman, married to a beggar, living in a shack made of mud and hope.
But something strange happened that same night.
Continued on the next page
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