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 captivating eyes and graceful figures, while Zainab was treated like a burden, a shameful secret to be 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 toward her. He never called her by her first name; to him, she was just “that thing.” He didn’t want her at the family table or present when guests arrived. He believed she was cursed, and when Zainab turned 21, he made a decision that would destroy what remained of her already broken heart.

One morning, her father entered her small room, where Zainab sat silently, her fingers tracing the raised dots of a worn braille book. He dropped a folded piece of cloth into her lap.

“You’re getting married tomorrow,” he said flatly.

Zainab froze. The words made no sense. Marry? Who?

“He’s a beggar from the mosque,” ​​his father continued. “You’re blind, he’s poor. A good match for you.”

She felt the blood drain from her face. She wanted to scream, but no sound came out. She had no choice. Her father had never given her one.

The next day, she was married in a small, rushed ceremony. Of course, she never saw her husband’s face, and no one dared describe it to her. Her father pushed her toward the man and told her to take his arm. She obeyed, like a ghost trapped in its own body. People laughed behind their hands, whispering, “The blind man and the beggar.”

After the ceremony, her father gave her a small bag containing some clothes and pushed her back towards the man.

“That’s your problem now,” he said, walking away without looking back.

The beggar, whose name was Yusha, silently guided her along the road. He said nothing for a long time. They arrived at a small, dilapidated hut on the edge of the village. It smelled of damp earth and smoke.

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

She sat on the old mat inside, holding back tears. So this was her life. A blind girl married to a beggar, in a hut made of mud and hope.

But that first night, something strange happened.

Yusha made her tea with gentle gestures. He gave her his coat and slept by the door, like a guard dog protecting his queen. He spoke to her as if she truly mattered—asking her what stories she loved, what dreams she carried, what foods made her smile. No one had ever asked him such questions.

The days turned into weeks. Every morning, Yusha accompanied her to the river, describing the sun, the birds, the trees with such poetry that Zainab felt as if she could see them through his words. He sang songs to her while she washed the clothes and, in the evening, told her stories of stars and distant lands. Zainab laughed for the first time in years. Her heart opened. And, in that strange little hut, the unthinkable happened: Zainab fell in love.

One afternoon, while she was looking for his hand, she asked,
“Have you always been a beggar?”

He hesitated. Then he said softly,
“Not always.”

He didn’t explain anything further. And Zainab didn’t press the issue.

Until the day when.

She went to the market alone to buy vegetables. Yusha had given her precise directions, and she had memorized every step. But halfway there, someone violently grabbed her arm.

“Blind rat!” a voice spat.

It was his sister. Aminah.

“Still alive? Are you still pretending to be a beggar’s wife?”

Zainab felt tears well up in her eyes, but stood tall.

“I’m happy,” she said.

Aminah burst out laughing cruelly.
“You don’t even know what he looks like. He’s trash. Just like you.”

Then she whispered something to him that devastated Zainab.

“He’s not a beggar. Zainab, you’ve been lied to.”

Zainab staggered home, lost. She waited until nightfall, and when Yusha returned, she asked the question again—this time firmly.

“Tell me the truth. Who are you really?”

He knelt before her, took her hands and said:

“You shouldn’t have found out so soon. But I can’t lie to you anymore.”

His heart was pounding.

He took a deep breath.

“I am not a beggar. I am the son of the Emir.”

Zainab’s world reeled as she absorbed the words. “The Emir’s son.” Her mind replayed each shared moment—his kindness, his strength, his vivid stories, too rich for a mere beggar—and suddenly it all made sense. He had never been a beggar. Her father had married her not to a pauper, but to a prince dressed in rags.

She withdrew her hands, her voice trembling.
“Why? Why did you let me think you were a beggar?”

“Because I wanted someone who would see me—not my wealth or my title. Just me. Someone pure. A love you can’t buy. You were everything I prayed for, Zainab.”

Her heart was torn between anger and love. Why hadn’t he told her? Why had he left her feeling discarded like trash?

“I didn’t want to hurt you. I came incognito because I was tired of women who loved the throne and not the man. Then I heard about a blind young woman, rejected by her father. I watched you from afar for weeks before going to find him in disguise. I knew he would agree, because he wanted to be rid of you.”

Tears rolled down Zainab’s cheeks. The pain of her father’s rejection mingled with the shock of the revelation.

“Come with me now—to my world, to the palace.”

Her heart leaped.
“But I’m blind. How could I be a princess?”

He smiled.
“You already are, my princess.”

The next morning, a royal carriage pulled up in front of their hut. Guards in black and gold bowed to Yusha and Zainab. She gripped his arm tightly as the carriage rolled toward the palace.

When they arrived, the crowd cheered. The missing prince had returned—with a blind young woman on his arm. The queen stared at Zainab for a long time, her eyes piercing. Zainab bowed humbly. Yusha stood straight at her side and said:

“This is my bride—the woman I chose. The one who saw my soul when no one else could.”

The queen was silent for a moment, then stepped forward and hugged Zainab.
“So, she is my daughter,” she said.

Zainab almost collapsed with relief. Yusha whispered to her,
“I told you, you’re safe.”

That night, standing by the palace window, Zainab listened to the sounds of the royal court. Her life had changed in a single day. She was no longer “that hidden thing.” She was a wife, a princess, a woman loved not for her beauty, but for her soul.

Yet she knew that shadows remained—her father’s hatred, the whispers of the court. But for the first time, she felt strong.

“I will not be crowned until my wife is accepted and honored. If she is not, I will leave with her.”

The room fell silent.

The queen stood up and proclaimed,
“From today on, Zainab is not just your wife—she is Princess Zainab of the Royal House. To disrespect her is to dishonor the crown.”

Respect replaced derision. Zainab’s heart quickened—not with fear, but with strength.

She began to make her voice heard at court, listening, advising, and gathering. Gradually, the nobles respected her not for her title, but for her wisdom.

Zainab was no longer the blind girl she once hid. She had become the queen of her own destiny. And by her side, Yusha remained her steadfast support.

Together, they built a kingdom ruled not by appearances, but by love, acceptance, and true strength.

For, in the end, Zainab understood that love is not about what the eyes can see, but about what the heart can hold.