Zainab had never seen the world, but she felt its cruelty with every breath.

She was born blind into a family that valued beauty above all else.
Her two sisters were admired for their enchanting eyes and graceful figures, while Zainab was treated like a burden—a shameful secret hidden behind closed doors.

Her mother died when she was only five, and from then on, her father changed.
He became bitter, resentful, and cruel—especially to her.
He never called her by name; he called her “that thing.” He
didn’t want her sitting at the table with them or visitors to see her.
He believed she was cursed.

And when Zainab turned 21, her father made a decision that would shatter what little remained of his broken heart.

One morning, her father entered her small room, where she was sitting silently, running her fingers over the Braille pages of an old, worn book.
He dropped a folded piece of cloth into her lap.

“You’re getting married tomorrow,” he said without emotion.

Zainab froze.
The words were meaningless.
Marry? To whom?

“With a beggar from the mosque,” her father added.
“You’re blind. He’s poor. You make a good couple.”

He felt as if the blood was draining from his face.
He wanted to scream, but he couldn’t get a word out.
He had no choice.
His father never gave him choices.

The next day, she was married in a quick and simple ceremony.
Of course, she never saw the man’s face—and no one dared describe him to her.
Her father pushed her toward him and told her to take his arm.
She obeyed, like a ghost trapped in her own body.
People snickered, murmuring,
“The blind woman and the beggar.”

After the wedding, her father handed her a small bag with some clothes and pushed it back toward the man.

“Now it’s your problem,” he said, and walked away without looking back.

The beggar, named Yusha, led her silently along the road. He didn’t speak for a long time.
They arrived at a dilapidated shack on the edge of the village. It smelled of wet earth and smoke.

“It’s not much,” Yusha said softly, “but you’ll be safe here.”

She sat on an old mat, holding back her tears.
That was her life now: a blind young woman, married to a beggar, living in a hut made of mud and hope.

But something strange happened that same night.

Yusha made her tea with gentle hands.
She gave her her own coat and slept by the door, like a guardian protecting his queen.
She spoke to her sincerely, asking what stories she liked, what dreams she had, what foods brought her joy.
No one had ever asked her anything like that before.

Days turned into weeks.
Yusha accompanied her to the river every morning, describing the sun, the birds, the trees—with poetry so vivid that Zainab could almost see them in her mind.
He sang to her while she washed clothes, and at night he told her stories about stars and distant lands.
Zainab laughed for the first time in years.
Her heart began to open.
And in that strange little hut… the unexpected happened:
Zainab fell in love.

One afternoon, while holding her hand, he asked her:

—Have you always been a beggar?

Yusha hesitated. Then she replied in a soft voice:

—Not always.

But he said no more, and Zainab did not insist.

Until one day…

Zainab went to the market alone to buy vegetables.
Yusha had given her clear instructions, and she memorized them step by step.
But halfway there, someone grabbed her arm tightly.

“Blind rat!” a voice spat. It was her sister—Aminah.
“Are you still alive? Still pretending to be a beggar’s wife?”

Zainab felt tears want to flow, but she stood her ground.

“I’m happy,” he said.

Aminah let out a cruel laugh.
“You don’t even know what he looks like. He’s trash… just like you.”

And then, he whispered something to her that broke her heart:

—He’s not a beggar, Zainab. You’ve been lied to.

Zainab staggered home, confused.
She waited until nightfall, and when Yusha returned, she asked him again—but this time firmly:

—Tell me the truth. Who are you really?

And then Yusha knelt down before her, took her hands, and said:

—You weren’t supposed to know yet. But I can’t keep lying to you.

Zainab’s heart was beating fast.

Yusha took a deep breath.

—I’m not a beggar. I’m the Emir’s son.

Zainab’s world began to spin.
“I am the Emir’s son.”
She tried to calm her breathing, trying to comprehend what she had just heard.
Every moment they shared flashed through her mind—his kindness, his quiet strength, the vivid stories that seemed too real for a beggar.
Now she understood why.
He was never a beggar.
Her father hadn’t married her to a beggar—he had unwittingly married her to royalty disguised in rags.

She took her hands away, stepped back, and asked in a trembling voice:

—Why? Why did you let me think you were a beggar?

Yusha stood up. Her voice was calm, but full of emotion:

—Because I wanted someone to see me for who I am, not for my wealth or my title.
I wanted someone pure. Someone whose love couldn’t be bought or forced.
You were everything I asked for, Zainab.

She sank to the ground.
Her heart was torn between anger and love.
Why didn’t he tell her sooner?
Why did he let her think she was thrown away like trash?

Yusha knelt down beside her again.

“I never meant to hurt you,” he said. “
I came to the village in disguise because I was fed up with suitors who loved the throne but not the man.
I heard about a blind girl rejected by her own father.
I watched you from afar for weeks before I asked for your hand in disguise as a beggar.
I knew he would accept—because he just wanted to be rid of you.”

Tears streamed down Zainab’s cheeks.
The pain of her father’s rejection mingled with disbelief that someone would go so far… only to find a heart like hers.

He didn’t know what to say.
So he simply asked:

—And now? What will happen next?

Yusha gently took his hand.

—Now, you’re coming with me. To my world. To the palace.

His heart leaped.

—But I’m blind… how can I be a princess?

He smiled.

—You already are, my princess.