The Weight of the Land

The scarf was loose around my head, its frayed edges brushing my neck as I stepped into the sunlight. I clutched the hem of my tunic, my fingers gripping the fabric tightly, as though it might anchor me to something familiar. My breaths were shallow, my steps deliberate. Each one brought me closer to a man I barely knew, to a life I did not choose.

Akram stood at the center of the gathering, stiff and silent. He was taller than I remembered, broader across the shoulders. His expression gave nothing away as his father completed the prayers.

I didn’t look at him. Akram. My husband now. The word felt foreign, like a stone caught in my throat. I stared instead at the ground, at the cracks that ran through the dirt like veins. They were everywhere in this village, these cracks, and I wondered how long it would take before I became one of them—dry, broken, forgotten.

“It is done,” his father said, his voice sharp and clipped.