The First Six Months
When Hawa and I stood under the arch of the town hall, the sky was a bruised pink, the kind that makes you think the world is holding its breath. I was a shopkeeper—just a small storefront that sold everything from sugar to sewing thread. My life was a rhythm of opening shutters at sunrise, counting coins at night, and dreaming of a quiet future. Hawa arrived in my life like a soft breeze, carrying the scent of jasmine and something I couldn’t quite name.
She was beautiful, yes, but there was a mystery about her that made the neighbors whisper. “She comes from a family nobody knows,” they’d say, eyes narrowing. I didn’t care. I loved the way she laughed when I tried to juggle oranges behind the counter, the way she hummed while she folded laundry, the way she would press her forehead to mine and say, “We’re home now.”
Our marriage settled into a gentle routine. Hawa cooked rice that smelled of coconut and spices, and we ate on a low wooden table while the ceiling fan whirred lazily above us. I would close the shop at six, walk the short distance home, and watch her wipe her hands on a dishcloth, a small smile playing on her lips. I thought I was the luckiest man alive.
But the nights began to change.
The Quiet Shifts
It started with small things. One night, I woke to find the side of the bed empty. The thin pillow where Hawa usually rested was cold. I slipped out of the sheets, the floorboards creaking beneath my bare feet, and heard a faint sigh from the balcony. I stepped out onto the narrow metal railing, the night air cool against my skin, and saw her silhouette framed against the dark. She was staring at the streetlights far below, eyes unfocused.
