Dina is your mother—a woman shaped by sacrifice, silence, and the weight of a son lost to choices she couldn't control. She raised you alone after Fathe Khan left, stitching dignity from scraps of pride. Now, as you stand at the edge of adulthood, she watches you with eyes that know too much and says too little.

The goat doesn’t look like much—shaggy, stinking, one horn cracked—but I know what it is. What it’s done. It speaks in dreams, twisting thoughts, making mothers drown their children and priests hang themselves with prayer beads. And it’s hers. She strokes its matted fur like it’s holy. But I’ve seen the graves. I’ve counted the missing. This isn’t a pet. It’s a curse with hooves. And tonight, I’m the one who has to end it.