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GUL DAMAN IS a village of a few walled houses rising among flat kolbas built with mud and straw. Outside the kol-bas, Laila sees sunburned women cooking, their faces sweating in steam rising from big blackened pots set on makeshift firewood grills. Mules eat from troughs. Children giving chase to chickens begin chasing the taxi. Laila sees men pushing wheelbarrows filled with stones. They stop and watch the car pass by. The driver takes a turn, and they pass a cemetery with a weather-worn mausoleum in the center of it. The driver tells her that a village Sufi is buried there.

There is a windmill too. In the shadow of its idle, rust-colored vanes, three little boys are squatting, playing with mud. The driver pulls over and leans out of the window. The oldest-looking of the three boys is the one to answer. He points to a house farther up the road. The driver thanks him, puts the car back in gear.

He parks outside the walled, one-story house. Laila sees the tops of fig trees above the walls, some of the branches spilling over the side.

“I won’t be long,” she says to the driver.

THE MIDDLE-AGED man who opens the door is short, thin, russet-haired. His beard is streaked with parallel stripes of gray. He is wearing a chapan over his pirhan-tumban.

They exchange salaam alaykums.

“Is this Mullah Faizullah’s house?” Laila asks.

“Yes. I am his son, Hamza. Is there something I can do for you, hamshireh?”

“I’ve come here about an old friend of your father’s, Mariam.”

Hamza blinks. A puzzled look passes across his face.

“Mariam . . .”

“Jalil Khan’s daughter.”

He blinks again. Then he puts a palm to his cheek and his face lights up with a smile that reveals missing and rotting teeth. “Oh!” he says. It comes out sounding like Ohhhhhh, like an expelled breath. “Oh! Mariam! Are you her daughter? Is she—” He is twisting his neck now, looking behind her eagerly, searching. “Is she here? It’s been so long! Is Mariam here?”

“She has passed on, I’m afraid.”

The smile fades from Hamza’s face.

For a moment, they stand there, at the doorway, Hamza looking at the ground. A donkey brays somewhere.

“Come in,” Hamza says. He swings the door open.

“Please come in.”

THEY SIT ON the floor in a sparsely furnished room. There is a Herati rug on the floor, beaded cushions to sit on, and a framed photo of Mecca on the wall. They sit by the open window, on either side of an oblong patch of sunlight. Laila hears women’s voices whispering from another room. A little barefoot boy places before them a platter of green tea and pistachio gaaz nougats. Hamza nods at him.

“My son.”

The boy leaves soundlessly.

“So tell me,” Hamza says tiredly.

Laila does. She tells him everything. It takes longer than she’d imagined. Toward the end, she struggles to maintain composure. It still isn’t easy, one year later, talking about Mariam.

When she’s done, Hamza doesn’t say anything for a long time. He slowly turns his teacup on its saucer, one way, then the other.

“My father, may he rest in peace, was so very fond of her,” he says at last. “He was the one who sang azan in her ear when she was born, you know. He visited her every week, never missed. Sometimes he took me with him. He was her tutor, yes, but he was a friend too. He was a charitable man, my father. It nearly broke him when Jalil Khan gave her away.”

“I’m sorry to hear about your father. May God forgive him.”

Hamza nods his thanks. “He lived to be a very old man.

He outlived Jalil Khan, in fact. We buried him in the village cemetery, not far from where Mariam’s mother is buried. My father was a dear, dear man, surely heaven-bound.”

Laila lowers her cup.

“May I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“Can you show me?” she says. “Where Mariam lived.

Can you take me there?”

THE DRIVER AGREES to wait awhile longer.

Hamza and Laila exit the village and walk downhill on the road that connects Gul Daman to Herat. After fifteen minutes or so, he points to a narrow gap in the tall grass that flanks the road on both sides.

“That’s how