“Yusha,” Zainab began, her voice trembling slightly. “My sister…she said something today. Something about you.”

Yusha looked up, his expression unreadable. He set aside the blanket and took her hand gently. “What did she say?”

“She said you’re not who you say you are. That you weren’t always a beggar.”

Silence stretched between them, taut and fragile. Zainab could hear the wind rustling through the reeds by the river, the distant chirrup of crickets welcoming the dusk.

Yusha sighed, a sound heavy with untold stories. “It’s true, Zainab. I wasn’t always a beggar.”