The word marriage did not echo.
It settled.
Clara sat stiffly on the edge of the sofa, her hands folded so tightly in her lap that her fingers had begun to ache. The living room felt smaller now, as if the walls had quietly leaned in, listening.
Marriage.
To a man she had met by accident.
To a mistake she wished she could undo.
Across from her, Captain Zayd stood with his arms crossed, posture rigid, expression unreadable. His uniform jacket hung neatly over the back of a chair, rain-damp and sharply pressed, the insignia on his shoulder catching the pale morning light.
"This is unnecessary," he said, voice even. "Nothing happened."
Clara flinched.
Nothing happened.
As if fear did not count.
As if humiliation left no mark.
Grandma Tika sat between them, her cane resting against her knee, eyes sharp and calculating.
"This is not about what happened," she said calmly. "It's about what can be said."
"I don't care what people say," Zayd replied.
"That's because you're a man," his mother snapped. "People forgive men easily."
Clara lowered her gaze.
She had learned that truth long before this morning.
"She teaches children," Grandma Tika continued, nodding toward Clara. "She is young. Unmarried. A guest in this house. You think whispers won't follow her?"
Clara's chest tightened.
"I can leave," she said softly. "I'll explain—"
"You will explain to whom?" Grandma Tika interrupted. "Parents who trust you with their children? Neighbors who enjoy stories more than truth?"
Zayd ran a hand through his hair, frustration flickering across his face. "You're turning this into a scandal."
"I'm preventing one."
Silence pressed down on them.
Outside, sunlight glinted off wet leaves. Life was moving on.
Inside, Clara felt stuck between choices that were not hers.
⸻
"I'm leaving for Gaza in three days," Zayd said at last. "This is not the time for impulsive decisions."
Clara looked up. "Gaza?"
"Yes. A one-year deployment."
Her stomach tightened.
One year.
Marriage already felt unreal. Now it felt reckless.
"So you'll just... leave?" she asked quietly.
Zayd hesitated. "That was always the plan."
Grandma Tika leaned forward. "Which is why this must be resolved quickly."
Zayd stared at her. "You can't expect me to marry someone I barely know and disappear."
"You can," his mother said evenly. "And you will."
Clara felt the room tilt.
She was being discussed, decided upon, measured like a solution instead of a person.
"I don't want to cause trouble," she said, her voice barely steady. "If this will be difficult for you—"
"You don't have to worry about me," Zayd cut in.
His tone was controlled. Distant.
He finally looked at her properly—not as a frightened girl from the morning, but as a woman sitting quietly in borrowed clothes, her expression composed despite everything.
She was not beautiful in a way that demanded attention. No makeup. No practiced charm. Just stillness.
He looked away.
"This would be a formality," he said. "My mother gets peace of mind. You keep your reputation. I leave. Life continues."
Each word landed like a small cut.
Clara swallowed.
⸻
Her phone vibrated in her pocket.
She didn't need to check.
Bastian.
The man who had promised her honesty and given her excuses instead. The man who had betrayed her and asked for understanding afterward.
She closed her fingers around the phone.
She lifted her head and looked directly at Grandma Tika.
"If I agree," she asked quietly, "what happens next?"
Zayd turned toward her sharply. "You don't have to—"
"I asked your mother," Clara said.
Grandma Tika studied her, then nodded once. "A simple ceremony. Two days."
Clara's breath caught. "Two days?"
"Yes. Before he leaves."
"That's impossible," Zayd said.
"You leave in three," his mother replied. "This gives you one day to adjust."
Clara let out a small, humorless laugh. "You're talking about marriage like it's paperwork."
"That's because it is," Zayd said without thinking.
The silence that followed was heavy.
Something inside Clara shifted.
Not breaking.
Hardening.
⸻
She thought of her parents' fields. The cracked mirror in her rented room. The bicycle she rode until her legs burned. The way she had loved quietly, never asking for more than she was given.
She thought of Bastian's betrayal.
And she realized something.
She was tired of waiting to be chosen.
"I agree," she said again, clearly this time.
Zayd stared at her. "You shouldn't decide this out of pride."
"It's not pride," she replied.
It was survival.
Grandma Tika nodded. "Good."
Zayd studied Clara, unsettled by the calm in her eyes. "You understand I can't give you anything."
"I'm not asking for anything," she said.
That, at least, was true.
⸻
The wedding happened the following morning.
There was no celebration. No guests beyond immediate family and a clerk who seemed bored by urgency.
Clara wore a simple cream blouse and a long skirt she already owned. Her hair was neatly tied back. No makeup. No flowers.
Zayd wore his uniform.
When the clerk asked if they entered the marriage freely, Clara hesitated—just a breath.
Zayd did not.
"Yes," he said.
She followed.
"Yes."
The word felt heavier than she expected.
When it was done, nothing changed.
There was no kiss.
No touch.
Zayd stepped back immediately, creating space where closeness was expected.
"I'll arrange for you to stay here," he said, speaking to his mother. "Until I leave."
Clara nodded.
She was now a wife.
And she had never felt more alone.
⸻
That night, Clara sat on the edge of the bed, the house quiet around her.
Her phone buzzed.
She opened the message.
I heard you stayed at a man's house. Is that true?
She typed one sentence.
I got married.
Then she turned the phone off.
⸻
Down the hall, Zayd stood in the doorway of the guest room, uniform jacket folded over his arm.
He had never planned to marry. Never planned to bring a stranger into his life on the eve of war.
Yet here he was.
This was temporary, he told himself.
It meant nothing.
Tomorrow, he would begin saying goodbye.