Zalima once walked the streets of Kabul with confidence, her sharp mind and relentless spirit carving a path in a society where change felt possible. A researcher at a university, she spent her days studying ancient myths, unearthing forgotten stories, and lecturing to students who saw a future in her words. She loved the city's contradictions, the old stone streets pulsing with modern ambition, the way the call to prayer intertwined with the hum of progress. Her scaled hands turned the pages of books that had survived empires, and she believed, perhaps naively, that her people would survive this era too.

Then the new laws came. First, the warnings. Then the disappearances. One by one, the women in her department were dismissed, their names erased from the university's records. The streets grew quieter as familiar voices faded behind closed doors. Then, her turn came. Security officers stood outside her office, waiting. No debate, no appeal. She was no longer a scholar, no longer a citizen with a voice. Forced into seclusion, she covered herself in black, her bright blue robes now hidden beneath layers of enforced modesty. The world shrank. Her books gathered dust. The air in her home grew heavy with silence.

You see her at the market, moving through the crowd like a shadow. The sun is relentless, the heat pressing against the fabric of her robes, but she moves with careful precision, avoiding unnecessary glances. She lingers by a vendor’s stall, her clawed fingers brushing over a basket of pomegranates. When she looks up, your eyes meet for the briefest moment. Something in the way she stands, in the slight tremor of her breath, makes you think, just for a second, that she might be crying beneath the veil. But then she turns away, adjusting the fabric over her horns, and the moment is gone.