Page 41

The desert wind curled around Tara's face like a whisper from another world. Her dark hair was loosely braided, long enough to brush the small of her back, but the wind teased it free, letting strands curl around her heart-shaped face.

She stomped behind Fatima, her bare feet brushing hot sand, wildflowers clutched tightly in her small hands.

The petals trembled with every step.

Golden dunes stretched endlessly in every direction, kissed by the last light of day. The sun dipped low, casting long shadows that danced like ghosts across the sand.

Fatima walked briskly ahead, her shawl billowing behind her, frustration evident in every step.

She had been frantic when Rulsaar told her she saw Tara heading toward the dunes. Without thinking, she'd grabbed her shoes and run—sand burning her soles, heart thundering in her chest.

And then she saw her.

Tara, small and oblivious, walking toward the horizon.

And behind her, a man.

Not close enough to touch—but far too close.

Fatima hadn't hesitated. She screamed at him, sharp as a blade, her voice cutting through the wind like lightning.

The man paused, startled, then turned and ran, swallowed by the sand and distance.

Now, as they walked back, Fatima's heart still pounded with the aftershock of fear. She didn't look back at Tara.

"I told you not to go out alone, Tara!" she snapped, not looking back. Her voice carried sharp with worry. "Do you know what could have happened to you?"

Tara flinched but didn't slow. "I just wanted to earn money," she muttered, clutching the crumpled flowers tighter.

Fatima spun around so suddenly that Tara almost collided with her. Her face was fierce, but her eyes—dark, wide, and shining—held something deeper.

Not anger.

Fear.

"You wanted to earn money?" Fatima repeated, her voice incredulous. "By running into the desert alone for some flowers? For a stranger? Do you not see how foolish that was?"

Tara's lower lip jutted out, her temper flaring. "She promised me coins... she was kind."

Fatima threw her hands up. "Because that woman was lying! Do you know what she really wanted? To lure you away! To take you!"

Tara blinked.

No

She remembered the woman's smile—warm, gentle. The way she had spoken softly, called her daughter. There had been no danger in her voice. Only kindness.

"She didn't," Tara said weakly. "She just wanted the flowers... for their scent. For perfume."

Fatima stepped forward. "No. She wanted you, Tara."

A cold shiver crawled up Tara's spine, but she refused to show fear. A doubt crept in her chest but still she couldn't believe that lady could do harm someone. She had asked for wildflowers and promised coins in return. That was all. Wasn't it?

Tara said, shaking her head. "You're just trying to scare me."

Fatima exhaled sharply, her patience fraying. "You are a child, and you don't understand the dangers in this world! Who told you to go and earn money. We have everything"

"I am not a child!" Tara snapped, her face heating with frustration. "I don't want to depend on anyone—I want to work, to have my own money!"

Fatima let out a bitter laugh. "You think picking flowers for strangers is work? You think money is worth risking your life?"

Tara's fists clenched, her eyes blazing. "I don't always want to be under anyone's watch! I will do as I please!"

Fatima's nostrils flared, and she stepped forward, her voice low and firm. "If you ever do something this reckless again, I will tell Oman."

Tara's breath caught.

That name. That name she had not heard for months. That name that once held meaning—too much meaning—now tasted like ash on her tongue.

Fatima instantly regretted the words. She saw the way Tara froze, how her fingers tightened around the crushed flowers like she was holding onto the last thread of control. Her gaze went distant, stormy.

Silence thickened between them.

She had not heard it in two months.

When they arrived in this town six months ago, Fatima had mentioned him often. But Tara would fall into silence every time. Her mood would sour, her expression darken. And so, Fatima had stopped.

Until now.

Fatima regretted it the moment the words left her mouth. She saw the way Tara froze, the way her fingers tightened around the flowers as if holding onto something slipping through her grasp.

And then, silence.

Fatima sighed, her frustration cooling into something softer. She knew what Tara was feeling but could do nothing about it

'You were a begger roaming the streets.'

'You are nothing but a burden, Tara.'

She had replayed those words a thousand times, each time fueling the fire in her chest.

She had stood before him, hurt and humiliated, while he looked at her with cold indifference. He had spoken those words without hesitation, without care.

And then he had thrown her away like she meant nothing.

And yet...

Why did hearing his name still wound her so deeply?

Tara's jaw clenched. She didn't want him.

Lifting her chin, she forced herself to meet Fatima's gaze, her voice cutting through the air like steel.

"I don't care."

Then she turned away, her frustration bubbling over. She didn't want to hear any more. She didn't want to feel like a foolish girl.

Then she turned and walked away, stomping over the sand, the wildflowers crushed and bruised in her palm, just like the tiny hope she'd buried inside her chest.

Fatima called after her, but she didn't look back.

She just wanted to be free. She just wanted to prove that she wasn't helpless.

Tara pushed the heavy wooden door of their home. The door creaked open and Inside, their small home smelled of burning oil and fresh bread. Warm. Familiar. Safe.

Tara stepped in, dropped the flowers onto the low table. Their petals were torn now, curling inward like they knew they had failed her.

The familiar scent of burning oil and fresh bread filled the air. The small space was quiet, except for the distant sound of Fatima's hurried footsteps behind her.

She sank onto the cushion by the wall, refusing to meet Fatima's gaze when she entered.

Fatima sighed and lowered herself beside her, shawl slipping from her shoulders.

"You're lucky I found you in time," she said softly.

Tara didn't answer.

Fatima hesitated, then reached out—but stopped short of touching her.

Tara swallowed, the fight slowly draining from her. "I just wanted to prove I can take care of myself."

Fatima's eyes softened, and for a moment, she reached out as if to touch Tara's hair—then stopped. "You don't have to prove anything."

Tara looked away. But she did.

Because no matter how hard she tried, she would always be the girl who needed saving.

And she hated it.

Tara clenched her fists, struggling to hold back the emotions. "I'm not a burden," she whispered, as if speaking the words aloud would somehow make them true.

Fatima was silent, her fingers brushing through Tara's hair in a gesture of comfort. "You can never be a burden on me. Remember that"

————

The night was quiet. The oil lamp had long gone out, and moonlight slipped in through the cracks in the shutters, painting silver patterns on the floor.

Shadows stretched along the walls, moving gently with the night breeze.

Tara lay alone on her thin mattress, her blanket carelessly pushed aside. Sleep did not come easily tonight. Her mind was restless, tangled with thoughts she could not shake.

She still couldn't believe what Fatima had told her.

That kind-eyed woman in the bazaar—the one who had promised her coins for flowers—had only been trying to lure her away.

The thought made Tara's stomach twist. Could such warmth hide such wickedness? It felt wrong, unreal. She had wanted to believe in the goodness of that smile.

Tara wanted to believe it was a mistake. She wanted to go back to the bazaar and find the woman herself, to prove that Fatima had been wrong.

She hadn't eaten.

She hadn't spoken to Fatima since sunset.

She was too angry, too stubborn to share space with her tonight. So she had turned her back and curled up alone, staring at the moon until her eyelids grew heavy.

Eventually, exhaustion won.

She drifted into sleep, the night air cool against her skin, her breath steady and slow.

And then—something changed.

The room remained silent, but there was a shift.

Something soft, barely there against her stomach. The sensation was subtle, almost imagined. Something brushed her stomach—slow, warm, and achingly gentle.

She stirred, her brows pulling together in the haze of sleep. Her tunic had ridden up slightly, exposing the smooth skin of her abdomen to the night air. But the sensation she felt wasn't from the cold.

It was warm.

Light.

A whisper of a touch.

A slow, lingering touch across her stomach—featherlight, unhurried.

Tara stirred, but not fully. She was caught between waking and dreaming, floating in that tender space where everything felt more vivid, more real.

The touch came again.

Slower this time.

Trailing along the curve of her waist, the warmth of it sinking into her skin, blooming deep in her core.

Her breath hitched.

Not in fear.

But in something quieter. Something softer.

The brush of knuckles. The hush of a breath near her ribs.

Fingertips? Or just a trick of her imagination?

A breath—hot and so near.

The presence wasn't far.

Her lashes fluttered, her body heavy with sleep, but something in her stirred. A quiet awareness. A recognition.

She didn't wake fully. She couldn't. The pull of sleep was too strong, anchoring her down. But her breath hitched, just slightly, as if a part of her understood what her mind refused to acknowledge.

Then—just as suddenly as it had come—the warmth vanished.

The air shifted, the weight of something—or someone—pulling away.

Tara stirred again, her body shivering at the sudden emptiness. Her eyes fluttered open, barely for a moment. The wooden beams above her were the same. The room was still. Quiet.

Empty.

Had it been a dream?

She exhaled softly, her lashes lowering once more. Her mind whispered reassurances— just a dream, just a dream— until sleep reclaimed her.

But beyond the moonlight, hidden in the shadows, something moved.

And the night kept its secrets.