Everything happens fast.
You hear a scuffle, a shout, a crash.
Someone grabs your arm and yanks, hard.
Your cane clatters to the floor, and panic explodes in your chest.
You reach for Yusha, but your fingers catch only air.
“Zainab!” Yusha roars, the sound ripped from somewhere primal.
You scream, and for the first time you don’t care who hears.
Hands drag you toward the doorway. Your feet stumble. Your breath tears.
Then, suddenly, the grip on you loosens.
A loud crack echoes, like wood snapping or a weapon striking bone.
A man groans. Another curses.
And the Imam’s voice cuts through the chaos, cold and commanding. “Enough.”
The room erupts with movement, the sound of bodies colliding, men being forced back.
You fall to your knees, palms scraping the floor.
You crawl, desperate, until your hands find fabric, then a wrist, then Yusha’s arm.
You cling to him like he’s the only solid thing in a world that keeps trying to erase you.
The Imam speaks to Ibrahim with a voice like judgment.
“You will not take her,” he says.
Ibrahim laughs, but it’s strained now. “Old man,” he says, “you can’t protect them forever.”
The Imam answers, steady.
“I don’t need forever,” he says. “Only long enough.”
Long enough for what? you wonder, shaking.
Then you hear it: the faint sound of whistles outside, the clatter of more boots, but different boots.
Official boots.
Court guards.
Officers.
The former clerk steps forward, voice trembling but loud.
“I filed the evidence,” he says. “It’s already recorded. Copies went to the magistrate. Copies went to the press.”
Ibrahim’s breathing changes.
For the first time, you hear uncertainty in him.
Yusha stands taller, and his voice fills the room.
“I am Yusha,” he declares. “Son of the governor you murdered.”
Silence slams down.
Even your father stops breathing for a second.
Ibrahim tries to laugh it off.
