Ali stood apart from his peers. He preferred gentler things — the company of his sister Sara, the quiet of the afternoon. His father permitted this until Ali turned thirteen, then forbade him from joining Sara and her friends outdoors.
Zain was the solitary boy in a circle of girls. Ali wasn't sure whether he was there for Sara or for something else, but he was glad not to be the only boy.
Ali had feelings for Fatima, Sara's closest companion. He couldn't act on them, not after his father's decree. Desperate to say it to someone, he invited Zain to the dates' orchard for what he called a serious conversation.
Beneath a towering date palm, Ali told him about Fatima.
Zain's angry response turned when Ali apologised and embraced him. Their first kiss came without ceremony. Zain admitted he had always been drawn to Ali — that Sara had been a disguise.
They both understood what society would say. The palm no longer felt like shelter enough.
Zain fled. He was determined to prove something through football.
Ali never spoke to him again. That summer, he started working at his father's bakery.
The Engagement
Sara burst in one evening: Fatima was getting married in two months.
Her happiness curdled when she named the groom. Zain.
Ali understood then why he had spent years in the bakery. Beyond feeding his family after his father left to join the border fighters, the oven was somewhere to be alone. Somewhere to hide.
He declined Sara's invitation to visit Fatima's family. Oven maintenance needed attention, he said.
Sara walked across what had been the dates' orchard — now crater-scarred. The south had found peace at last, thanks to the border defenders. At Fatima's house she promised to bring her brother along before walking home under the stars.
The Marriage
Fatima was radiant. So was Zain. Ali surprised himself by feeling something close to happiness for them, though his attraction ran in both directions and he didn't know what to do with that.
Beside his father — who had come specifically for this — Ali felt the weight of unspoken things. His father talked of the border. Of violence that sounded like pride.
Around them sat men missing limbs, men with scarred faces. They all seemed to be looking at the baker whose body was whole and unblemished.
Near the end, the occasion revealed its real purpose. Officials led the men into a tent. Their destination was beyond the border: a major offensive, with orders to leave nothing alive. The groom joined them without hesitation.
Before he left, Fatima found Ali. She was pregnant. She was proud. She told him he and Zain would be going together.
His father interrupted: "I'll bring these two boys back as men next year. We'll bless your child. Now move, join the others. Time to leave."
The Mother
In the truck, Ali said nothing while his father explained fatherhood to Zain.
During training, he absorbed hatred. In the hospital he saw the wounded, heard the accounts, learned what he was supposed to feel. Bombing continued. The wards filled with women and children from the other side.
He wondered why the hospital was spared. His father gave political answers that didn't reach far enough.
When they returned to Fatima's house, Ali barely recognised her. She held her three-month-old son and her strength made him feel diminished.
Zain was cold. Almost irritated. Fatima had told Sara that since the pregnancy he had stopped touching her — that the warmth at the wedding had been performance, aimed at Ali. She was devastated by his indifference toward the child.
The visit was brief and awkward. His father announced their real mission: collect supplies before the incursion. Ali fell into exhausted sleep in the truck bed, surrounded by weapons and a weight he had no name for.
The Incursion
He woke at 3 AM, shivering.
They crossed the border. Nearly an hour of driving toward their target. He was too alert to sleep, turning over what he'd been told: that they would slaughter the men responsible, take the women, leave no one. Because none of them were human.
Jumping from the truck, he heard gunfire ahead. Then he saw the men they had come for, and they looked like him. The women's screaming was the same sound his own people made after bombardments.
Ali never discharged his weapon.
Zain called out: "Ali! Ali! Upstairs. Here! Go get the woman upstairs!"
Ali watched Zain drag two boys, fifteen at most. Then two gunshots.
He climbed the stairs slowly, his heartbeat counting each step.
A woman sat in the bedroom with an infant. She looked at him without flinching. "You're different," she said. "I see it. You see me. Please. Please, spare us."
His legs gave. He went down on one knee.
She stroked his hair. "Please spare—"
The bullet entered her left eyebrow. She fell backward, still holding the crying child.
Zain's voice from below: "That's on you for being too slow. Grab the baby and go. GO."
Ali lifted the infant. Soft as dough. He thought of the oven, of its warmth.
There was nowhere left to hide. But strangely — for the first time — he wasn't alone.