SHE NEVER TOOK OFF HER MAKEUP UNTIL HE LOCKED THE DOOR ON THEIR WEDDING NIGHT.

Slowly, his eyes opened.

Nadiraa gasped with relief and leaned closer.

But Omar’s face suddenly changed.

His weak eyes widened.

His mouth trembled.

“Nadiraa?” he whispered, his voice broken. “What… what happened to you?”

Nadiraa froze.

Her heart stopped.

She touched her cheek and felt it.

Not smooth. Not soft. But dry skin. Lines. Wrinkles.

The powder was breaking.

Her mask was gone.

Omar stared, shocked, his chest rising and falling as he tried to make sense of the face before him.

“You… you are not…” he stammered. “How… how old are you?”

Nadiraa covered her face with both hands and began to sob.

Omar pushed himself up slowly. He could barely stand, but his eyes remained fixed on her face.

The young bride he had carried moments ago was gone.

Before him was an old woman—skin wrinkled, lips trembling, hair thin and gray where the powder had cracked away.

Omar’s breathing became shallow and fast. He pressed his back against the wall as if trying to escape. His eyes darted to the door.

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