She told him the truth: uninhibited, raw, messy, beautiful. She loved him. She could admit it, now. Perhaps he already knew, but she needed to tell him; she couldn’t bear the burden of a truth untethered. Even if she never saw him again afterward.

Feeling light, Durkhanai slipped into the passageways, navigating to find his room. She needed to give it to him herself, too afraid of it falling into anybody else’s hands. This letter was evidence of her sin. It was damning. She shouldn’t have taken the chance, shouldn’t have written it, but she didn’t care.

She was tired of running.

The words were for him and him alone and she would deliver them.

It was nearly dawn. Asfandyar would be preparing for travel after the morning prayer. He wouldn’t be in his room. She would just slip it into his kameez pocket and disappear. Perhaps he would read it only when he was on the road. Perhaps ten years from now, he would look back and remember and smile at the memories.

Perhaps.

She slipped into the passageways, running her hand along the cold cement walls. Dripping water echoed behind her, mingling with the sound of her sure footsteps. She fingered the letter in her hand, smelled the ink. She pressed a final kiss to the paper as she arrived at Asfandyar’s room.

But by the door, she found a little box full of letters.

Biting back a smile, Durkhanai reached down and picked out a little note. She recognized her own handwriting. The notes looked worn, like they had been opened and closed many times.

Durkhanai knew she should do what she came for and leave, but she couldn’t resist.

Pressing down on the bruise of her heart, she picked up the box. She unfolded the letter on top, recognizing her own slanted handwriting from the night it had rained. They hadn’t been able to go distribute medicine, but they had exchanged letters deep into the night.

She ran her fingers along the words, thinking of what a rosy-eyed fool she had been.

But the box felt strangely full as she carried it to his bed and sat down. She didn’t remember writing so many letters to him.

Then she saw handwriting that wasn’t hers.

Her first thought was that of jealousy: that he already had a lover. But the truth was much worse.

She read the letter at the top, the most recent, she assumed, and she didn’t understand: not who it was from or what was going on. But somebody was giving Asfandyar orders; somebody was growing impatient.

Asfandyar had been sent to distract her.

He had been sent to make her fall in love with him, so he could make a fool out of her. And suddenly things began to make sense: how he was always there, always finding her, always knowing what to say.