The journey had been a long one. When he used to recite the Quran at graves, he would be paid in pastries that were baked as part of the mourning ritual. His voice wasn’t melodic enough to compete with the other famous reciters who were paid handsomely. A long time had passed since he’d recited the Quran for money, just as Sakina had stopped selling her wares on the country road (although she carried on trading from home with customers who came to her door). Khalil now owned a shop on the main road. God had blessed them and immersed them in His grace, but now Zakiya had put an end to his journey and, from this day forward, he would be as good as finished.
He ached and groaned like a sick man. ‘How can I show my face, Sakina?’ A week had passed since the girl’s disappearance, a week of bei
