That first night, Lira braced herself for cruelty. Instead, Elias brewed salabat and placed his own blanket over her shoulders. He asked about her favorite dishes, the stories she liked to hear, and what dreams she still carried in her heart. No one had ever asked her such questions.
Days passed. Each morning, Elias described the dawn, the rustle of palm trees, the shimmer of the river. Through his words, Lira began to imagine the world. He sang as she washed clothes, and at night, he told her tales of faraway seas and constellations. For the first time in years, she laughed. Slowly, she began to love him.
But doubt remained. His voice was refined, his stories too vivid, his manners unlike a beggar’s. One evening, she asked softly, “Elias, were you always this poor?” He hesitated. “Not always,” he said, and left it at that.
Weeks later, on her way back from the market, a voice stopped her. It was Clarisse, her elder sister. “So this is how you live,” Clarisse mocked. “Do you even know who that man really is?”
Lira stood straighter. “He is my husband, and I am content.”
Clarisse laughed sharply. “Content? You fool. He is no beggar.”
The words clung to Lira’s mind. That night, she asked Elias again, her voice firmer. “Tell me the truth. Who are you?”
He knelt before her, took her hands gently, and whispered, “I wanted you to love me without knowing. But I cannot lie anymore. I am the son of the gobernador.”
Lira’s heart raced. The stories, the grace in his tone—all made sense now. Through tears she asked, “Why did you let me believe otherwise?”
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