The scent of fresh morning dew clung to the air as Eda raced through the narrow cobblestone paths of her small village. The golden sunlight, filtering through the swaying acacia trees, painted dappled shadows on the uneven road beneath her feet. She barely noticed the villagers greeting her as she flew past them, clutching the delicate parchment against her chest—the results of her 12th-grade exit exam.

Her heart thundered inside her ribcage. She had done it. She had passed. The future she had dreamed of, the education she had fought for, was finally within her grasp.

"Eda!" called a familiar voice.

She slowed slightly, turning to see her step-uncle standing at the edge of the road, his sharp eyes scanning her face with a knowing look.

"Where are you running off to?"

“I can’t talk now,” she said breathlessly, but he stepped in her path, forcing her to pause.

“You got your results, didn’t you?” His tone was unreadable.

Eda tightened her grip on the parchment. “Yes, but my father sees them first.”

A slow, confident smirk curled on his lips. “There was no doubt. You were always going to pass.”

Something about the way he said it made her skin prickle. She nodded quickly, ready to continue her path, when his voice dropped into something smoother, more deliberate.

“You look beautiful today.”

Her fingers clenched at her sides. She forced a polite smile, murmured a curt “thank you,” and darted past him. As she ran, she felt his lingering gaze tracing the movement of her body, a quiet presence she wished she could ignore.

************************************************************************************************

The aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled the dimly lit sitting area. Small embroidered cushions lay scattered across the worn floor mats, their faded colors a testament to years of use. The wooden shutters filtered the afternoon light, casting slanted golden streaks against the walls, illuminating the air thick with incense.

Eda’s half-sister, slumped in the corner, avoided her mother’s piercing glare as she toyed with the rim of an untouched coffee cup.

Stepmother: _(voice sharp, filled with disdain)_ "You failed."

Half-Sister: _(quietly, eyes downcast)_ "It was hard. It was so hard."

Stepmother: _(mocking laugh)_ "Hard? Was it exceptionally hard for you and no one else?"

*The woman leaned forward, her bangles clinking together as her fingers curled around her cup. Her tone was laced with venomous frustration.*

Stepmother: "Why did Eda probably get the highest grade? She scrubs the floors, hauls water, prepares food, and still finds time to study. And you? You eat, sleep, laze about, and do nothing!"

*The half-sister winced, her eyes brimming with unshed tears, but she said nothing.*

Stepmother: _(with finality)_ "You are an embarrassment."

A tense silence filled the room. Outside, the village bustled with life, but in this moment, inside these walls, shame and resentment hung thick in the air.

And then—suddenly—the door swung open.

************************************************************************************************

By the time she reached home, she burst through the door, excitement still shaking through her limbs. She hadn’t seen the coffee ceremony taking place, hadn’t realized that her entrance had disrupted the ritual. The steaming tray clattered to the ground, the sharp aroma of spilled coffee filling the room.

A chilling silence stretched across the space.

Her stepmother froze, her head jerking from side to side in erratic movements. The beads on her wrists trembled violently, rattling against each other as her body convulsed. Then suddenly—a guttural groan escaped her lips.

“You… you disturbed the ceremony…”

Eda took a step back, unease creeping into her chest. Around her, the stepmother’s friends dropped to their knees, pressing their foreheads to the ground in reverence.

“Forgive us, Shaman,” they whispered in unison. “She didn’t know.”

Something ancient and unspoken weighed heavy in the air. Eda could only watch, frozen, as her stepmother trembled and wailed before suddenly slumping back into herself. The episode lasted only seconds, but the terror lingered.

Then, as if nothing had happened, her stepmother stood.

"Come with me," she ordered.

Eda followed her to a dimly lit back room, the scent of dried herbs lacing the walls.

"What were you thinking barging in here?"

"I—I wanted to tell Father—"

"About your grades?" The woman held out her hand. “Let me see them.”

Eda hesitated, then slowly handed over the parchment. Her stepmother’s eyes flickered over the results before her lips curled into something cold, unreadable.

She turned, her movements swift, hiding the paper inside the folds of a fabric chest.

"You can tell your father later," she said casually, as though sealing Eda’s fate was nothing more than a daily chore. "Right now, I need you to help me. The villagers will be coming for the holiday, and we need fresh bread."

The warmth of her triumph faded.

Eda swallowed her protest.

And slowly, wordlessly, she turned back to her work.

The rhythmic hum of weaving looms filled the air inside the small workshop, where rolls of colored fabric draped along the wooden beams. The air was thick with the scent of drying ink and soft, freshly spun thread.

Aziz, Eda’s father, stood in the center of the workspace, inspecting the work of his weavers and tailors. His hands were steady, firm—his eyes sharp as he observed the stitches being sewn with careful precision.

The town’s fashion industry, though small, was essential. The city’s elite relied on their craftsmanship, on their ability to transform mere textiles into works of art.

Shane, one of Aziz’s trusted subordinates, leaned against a table, smirking lightly. “What of Eda’s results?”

Aziz let out a proud chuckle. “They should be arriving soon. I have no doubt she’ll score the highest.”

Shane laughed. “That girl is something else. You raised her wel.”

“She will do great things,” Aziz said, his voice filled with certainty. “No matter what stands in her way.”

But as the evening arrived, Aziz did not yet know the truth.

*******************************************************

Back at home, Eda’s stepmother had already buried her success beneath deception.

"You must tell him you failed," the woman had whispered, her voice tight, calculating. "He cannot afford to send you away. If you care about your father, about your siblings, you must make the sacrifice."

Eda had stood there, her pulse pounding in her ears.

"If you truly love them," the woman pressed, "then you will let this go."

*******************************************************

Shane laughed. “That girl’s going places. You must be proud.”

Aziz’s expression softened. “More than anything.”

A quiet pride settled into his features, a father’s confidence in his daughter’s future. Then, shifting the conversation, he clapped Shane’s shoulder.

“You all must come to the house for the New Year’s party. We’ll gather around the campfire, as always,” Aziz said, his voice warm with anticipation. “We’ll celebrate her, as well as the year ahead.”

Shane’s face lit up, and murmurs of excitement rippled through the workers.

“She deserves it,” another tailor chimed in. “Exceptional girl, that one.”

The energy in the workshop lifted, voices cheering as they toasted to the girl they all believed in.

But outside of these walls, beneath the roof of their shared home, Eda’s truth was being rewritten.

*******************************************************

The weight of her stepmother’s words sat heavy in Eda’s chest as she drifted through the streets, head bowed, steps slow. The world around her moved in the familiar rhythm of daily life—children laughing, vendors calling, neighbors waving—but she did not lift her gaze. She did not meet their smiles. The lightness that usually lived in her footsteps had disappeared, replaced with something leaden, something hollow.

She reached the workshop, the scent of sawdust and warm metal wrapping around her like a long-lost embrace. Her father was in the midst of conversation, his voice full of warmth and excitement as he paced between the tables. Then—someone called her name.

"Eda is here."

Her father turned. The moment their eyes met, his expression shifted. The anticipation in his face softened, giving way to concern as he read her silence, the sorrow written in her features. A father's intuition needed no explanation. His steps carried him to her, his arms pulling her into a firm embrace.

"It's okay," he murmured, a steady reassurance against the storm inside her. "Next year is another year. We'll make this happen." His voice was unwavering, filled with quiet conviction, as if there was no room in his heart for doubt.

Around them, the workshop had fallen into silence. Just moments ago, laughter and conversation had filled the air, the certainty of her success unquestioned. Now, disbelief lingered in their silence, the weight of her unspoken confession settling over the room like dust in the beams of light.

Aziz looked around at the gathered workers, their downcast gazes mirroring his own feelings, and then—he straightened. His voice rang out, breaking the hush.

"Everyone at my house tonight. We are celebrating the new year, and I won’t have any of these long faces. She worked hard, harder than anyone, and that is worth celebrating."

The workshop stirred again, nods exchanged, voices rising in agreement. One by one, hands clasped her shoulder, arms wrapped her in comfort, laughter returning in soft waves.

The invitation stood. And in its acceptance, Eda felt, just for a moment, the burden lift.

*******************************************************

The evening unfolded in a cascade of movement, the household of Aziz coming alive in preparation for the celebration. The scent of spices thickened in the air as women gathered around the worn wooden tables, their hands moving with practiced precision—chopping onions, kneading dough, stirring fragrant pots that simmered over the open flame. The rhythmic clatter of knives against cutting boards blended with bursts of laughter, their voices weaving together in lively conversation, exchanging stories, gossip, and the kind of shared wisdom passed between generations.

Outside, the men busied themselves with the fire, stacking fresh logs onto the growing campfire. Sparks leapt into the night, embers glowing a deep orange as flames curled upward. The fire crackled and pulsed, sending warmth through the crisp evening air. Children darted between the adults, their joy unchecked—some chasing one another in a breathless game of tag, others sneaking sweet treats from uncovered platters before being scolded playfully by the women.

In the far corner of the courtyard, the elders sat in a close-knit circle, their laughter rich and full, deep voices exchanging old stories that had been told time and time again, yet never lost their charm. Some leaned in with knowing glances, others stroked their beards, punctuating every tale with nods of approval. A rhythmic drumbeat started from somewhere among the crowd, slow at first, then growing, folding itself into the atmosphere, binding the celebration with tradition.

The household hummed with life—motion, sound, scent—every detail breathing into the moment, turning the evening into something unforgettable. And amidst it all, Aziz watched, his gaze landing on his daughter, who moved through the celebration, still carrying the weight of the day, yet wrapped in the warmth of the people who loved her.

*******************************************************

The evening swelled with celebration—flames crackling, voices spilling into the night, laughter threading through the warm air. Challa, ever watchful, threw sharp, cutting glances at Eda from across the room, her dark eyes flicking between her daughter and the unsuspecting father. She had no need for words; her gaze carried the weight of a warning, a silent command to hold her tongue. Minie, sensing her mother’s tension, sat stiffly beside her, fiddling with the hem of her sleeves, while Adam, oblivious to the storm brewing, tugged at the strings of a kite, eager to take it into the night sky.

Then—movement at the gate.

Mr. Danal and his wife, flanked by a handful of neighbors, entered the courtyard with lively chatter. They spoke in excited tones, their voices carrying over the hum of preparation. As they approached Aziz, their hands lifted in congratulatory gestures.

"Mr. Aziz!" Mr. Danal boomed. "What wonderful news—congratulations!"

Aziz, who had been listening to an elder recount an old folktale, looked up, his face settling into polite confusion. He straightened from his relaxed stance, his hand still resting on the shoulder of the elderly man beside him.

"What news?" he asked, warmth still lingering in his tone despite his uncertainty.

Mrs. Danal grinned, eyes bright. "Where is she? Where is our brilliant girl? The teachers couldn’t stop singing her praises! Highest grade in town—and a scholarship, no less!"

A quiet ripple passed through the gathered guests, whispers stirring at the edges of the courtyard.

Aziz blinked. His gaze darted across the crowd, searching. Searching for his daughter—for confirmation, for clarity. But Eda was nowhere to be seen.

Challa, meanwhile, had gone still. Like water interrupted mid-flow, her movements halted, her mind racing beneath the composed exterior she fought to maintain. Thoughts twisted and tangled. Explanations eluded her.

Aziz turned toward her, toward the house, toward the guests who had arrived bearing news he had not expected. And in that moment, silence draped itself over the celebration.

The morning unfolded in slow, deliberate breaths.

Aziz sat on a small wooden stool just outside the house, the rising sun casting a golden warmth over his features. He was still, contemplative—not reminiscing, but sifting through the fragments of last night’s celebration, piecing together the unexpected turns that had disrupted his certainty.

The moment the neighbors arrived, their voices spilling over with praise and congratulations, still echoed in his mind. Their words had carried weight, certainty—words he had not anticipated. The scholarship, the highest marks in town. Eda’s success had reached beyond the walls of their home, beyond his own expectations. Yet, when he had turned toward her, expecting joy, expecting the spark of achievement—there had been silence. And then, her stepmother.

Challa’s face had tightened, but her voice had held an unsettling ease. "We were just playing a little joke on you," she had laughed, waving it away. "Look at your face!"

And just like that, the tension dissolved, or at least—was meant to. The guests had laughed, the celebration continued, but Aziz had felt something shift within him. A lingering thought, a sensation too stubborn to ignore.

Even now, seated beneath the warmth of the morning, he wrestled with it. He had no reason to believe anything beyond what was said, beyond what was confirmed by the school itself. But something gnawed at the edges of his mind.

Still, he let himself settle into the truth that mattered—the scholarship. The opportunity. The future he had dreamed for his daughter was not slipping away. And for now, that was enough.

...****************...

In the backyard, Eda scrubbed the fabric against the washboard, the scent of sun-dried linens mixing with the crisp air. Her hands moved with practiced ease, but her thoughts drifted.

The memory of her father’s face—lit with joy, lifted with relief—played in her mind, filling her with warmth. The scholarship had changed everything, shifting the weight she had carried, dissolving the fear of burdening him further.

For the first time in weeks, she had seen him laugh without restraint, without the heaviness of financial worry dampening his expression. That alone made her heart feel lighter.

But then—Challa.

Eda remembered the moment she had pulled her stepmother aside, away from the celebration, away from the smiling neighbors. The conversation had been brief, but heavy.

"The scholarship," she had said, her voice measured. "It covers everything. There’s no need to worry about money anymore."

Challa had pursed her lips, her expression unreadable, and then—without a word—she had simply turned and walked away.

Eda had stood there, unmoving, watching her disappear into the house.

Now, as she worked through the laundry, the thought still clung to her—unanswered, unresolved.

A sharp voice pulled her from her trance.

"Eda!"

Her stepmother.

She straightened, shaking off her thoughts, turning toward the house.

The weight of last night had not yet fully lifted.

...****************...

Eda had been lost in the tangle of her thoughts, the echoes of the previous night pressing against her mind like ink seeping into cloth. Her stepmother’s voice cut through her wandering—sharp, firm, an unspoken warning carried in its cadence.

She flinched. The sound of her name from Chala’s lips had never simply been a call; it had always been a summons, tethered to expectation.

A breath. A steadying pause. She adjusted her shawl and stepped toward the house, the weight of uncertainty pressing against her ribs. After last night—after Chala’s dismissal, her cruel silence—Eda wasn’t sure where they stood. Was her stepmother simply setting another trap? Or had she already decided that Eda wasn’t worth her time?

She found Chala near the entrance, adorned in layers of intricate beads that clicked together with the slightest movement, her headscarf framing her sharp, assessing gaze.

“Did you call me?”Eda asked, careful, measured.

“Your father needs you,” Chala replied, her tone indifferent. “Give him a foot wash.”

Eda swallowed her unease. She stepped inside, preparing the bowl of water, the routine methodical—pour, steady the clay, press fingers against the rim to ground herself.

Aziz was lost in thought when she approached. He sat on his stool, his broad figure weighed down by something heavier than time. She knelt before him, setting the bowl beneath his feet, before lifting her gaze to his face—the expression there unreadable, a storm behind his eyes.

“Father,” she murmured, the word barely leaving her lips as she gently held his foot, the warmth of his skin grounding her.

For a moment, he simply stared at her. The sadness in his gaze was sharper than any spoken reprimand. Then, silently, he lifted his leg, settling it into the water.

As she washed his feet, the silence between them stretched, thick with unspoken truths—until he broke it.

“Why did you lie?” His voice was quiet but firm.

Eda’s fingers faltered for half a second before continuing their rhythmic movement. She didn’t look up, but her heart startled, its beat betraying her.

He spoke again, just as gently, but with a steel beneath his words. “Why didn’t you tell me you passed?”

She swallowed, forcing a lightness into her tone. “We were just playing.”

Aziz exhaled, his gaze darkening. Slowly, carefully, he lifted her chin, tilting her face toward him so she had no choice but to meet his eyes.

“Did your stepmother put you up to this?”

She could feel her pulse hammering beneath his touch.

She inhaled—steady, certain—and forced her answer. “Absolutely not. It was my idea.” She tried to smile. “I thought it’d be funny. I’m sorry.”

Aziz studied her for a long, unrelenting moment. He didn’t believe her. But he let it go.

Once she finished, he blessed her and kissed her forehead, as he always did. She rose with the bowl in her hands, stepping away, knowing that the conversation had only ended in words—not in truth.

...****************...

The workers at the textile workshop moved with efficiency, their hands threading, dyeing, sewing, and printing.

Today, the atmosphere had an added weight.

A representative was coming from the main branch in the city. This wasn’t just a routine visit—it was an evaluation, an opportunity, or a reckoning.

Mr. Aziz walked among them, urging excellence, encouraging them to be at their absolute best.

Eda worked alongside him, her movements practiced as she flung pigment onto the hanging threads, coating them in deep, rich tones—tradition, skill, artistry, all woven into each motion.

Eda lifted the jug with steady hands, tilting it forward with practiced ease. The ink spilled in thick, deliberate ribbons, meant to soak into the stretched threads before her. But in an instant—so quick it barely registered—the trajectory shifted.

Instead of dyeing the fabric, the liquid splashed onto the figure that had unknowingly stepped into its path.

A sharp inhale. A startled gasp.

She froze.

The clay slipped from her fingers, hitting the ground with a dull crack, its remnants scattering at her feet. Her hands flew to her mouth, covering it in shock, her breath caught somewhere in her chest.

The man, his presence unfamiliar yet undeniable, instinctively wiped the ink from his face. He blinked rapidly, trying to clear his vision, the abruptness of the moment leaving him disoriented. His movements were quick, urgent—not of anger, but of confusion.

He inhaled sharply, his gaze flickering as he took in his surroundings, trying to piece together the scene.

And then, before he could fully register what had happened, another figure emerged behind him.

A steadier presence. Someone belonging to the house, to the business, to the pulse of this place—someone accustomed to movement, to handling what needed handling.

Tomas.

Eda knew him well—he was woven into the fabric of their daily lives, navigating both the house and the workshop with the ease of someone who had long learned how to balance duty. He wasn’t just a helping hand; he was a fixer, a negotiator, a silent orchestrator of order.

He stepped forward, catching the moment as if his presence alone could smooth the edges of disruption.

But Eda wasn’t watching Tomas. Her gaze remained locked on the man before her—the man who now stood there, ink-streaked, blinking back the remnants of surprise.

This was how they met. Not in hushed introductions or formal exchanges.

But in spilled pigment and startled silence.

...****************...

Eda’s breath caught in her throat as she watched the ink splatter across the stranger’s chest, dripping down in thick, uneven streaks against the fabric. His movement was instinctive—a sharp inhale, a startled step back—his hand coming up to wipe the liquid from his face, clearing his vision, as if trying to make sense of what had just happened.

The clay jug slipped from Eda’s fingers before she could process the moment, crashing against the stone floor with a muted crack, shards scattering at her feet. Her hands flew to her mouth, covering it in shock, her breath caught somewhere in her chest.

For a moment, all she could hear was the sharp hush of the workshop—the sudden absence of chatter, the weight of silence settling thick in the air.

And then, a voice cut through it.

Thomas stepped forward, his presence emerging from the shadows like a force meant to restore order. His voice carried authority, but not patience.

“What the hell just happened?”

The words snapped through the space, heavy, demanding.

Thomas’s gaze flickered between Eda and the man before her, his frustration sharpening. “Are you blind?” he barked, his tone edged with incredulity. “Did you not see a grown man standing right in front of you?”

Eda swallowed hard, her body jolting into movement, apology spilling from her lips before she could even think.

“I—I’m so sorry—”

Her hands moved before her mind caught up, reaching instinctively for the nearest fabric hanging from the drying racks. She pulled it down in one swift motion, pressing it against the man’s ink-stained face, dabbing at the dark streaks marring his skin and clothes.

He said nothing.

Simply watched her.

The weight of his gaze was heavy—not accusing, not harsh, but something else entirely. Amusement.

The edges of his lips barely moved, but there was something in his eyes, a flicker of quiet entertainment at the way she stumbled over her apologies, at the frantic way she tried to fix what could not be undone.

Without breaking his stare, he lifted his hand—just the smallest movement, a silent gesture meant to shush Thomas.

And Thomas, ever the loyal servant of hierarchy, immediately fell silent.

Mr. Aziz had rushed forward the moment the commotion began, his instinct pushing him toward his daughter, toward the mess of ink and tension that filled the air. But as he neared, his steps slowed. He observed, assessed, read the atmosphere.

The situation had settled.

Still, he approached, his presence deliberate, his gaze calm yet firm.

“Apologize properly, Eda,” he instructed, voice even, eyes flicking toward the guest.

She did, again, though her words carried a softer breath now, less frantic, more measured.

Aziz turned his attention to the two men.

“You’re from the main branch of Roseanne Family Textile, I presume?”

Thomas exhaled, the weight of irritation still lingering in his posture. “Yes, we are,” he responded, clipped, short. He shifted, about to continue, about to say something else—something far more revealing—when the ink-stained man beside him raised his hand again, stopping him with effortless command.

“Employees,” the man said simply. His voice was smooth, unassuming but deliberate.

Aziz nodded, accepting the answer without question. “Eda, take him to wash in the backyard,” he instructed, his tone carrying expectation rather than request.

And just like that, the moment shifted.

Eda led him through the narrow corridor, away from the lingering stares, past the storage rooms and back toward the quiet space where water ran cool and fresh from the stone basin. She poured it carefully, watching the way the ink mixed with it, the way the dark stains slowly faded into nothing.

He stood before her, peeling the damp fabric from his torso with practiced ease, pulling the shirt over his head, revealing the sharp lines of his physique, the effortless definition, the strength that came from something deeper than leisure.

She swallowed, forcing her gaze to remain steady, to remain proper.

He watched her watching him, and the faintest flicker of amusement curled at the corner of his lips.

“You’re nervous,” he observed, the words casual, conversational.

“I’m not,” she countered quickly. Too quickly.

And there was the amusement again, subtle, entertained, drawn from the way she refused to meet his eyes, from the way she poured water without speaking, from the way she carried herself like someone deeply aware of her own presence.

For the first time since their meeting, he smiled.

Not fully.

Just enough to make her pulse stumble.