It was Mullah Faizullah who had held her hand, guided the pencil in it along the rise of each alef, the curve of each beh, the three dots of each seh.
He was a gaunt, stooping old man with a toothless smile and a white beard that dropped to his navel.
Usually, he came alone to the kolba, though sometimes with his russet-haired son Hamza, who was a few years older than Mariam.
When he showed up at the kolba, Mariam kissed Mullah Faizullah's hand—which felt like kissing a set of twigs covered with a thin layer of skin—
and he kissed the top of her brow before they sat inside for the day's lesson.
After, the two of them sat outside the kolba, ate pine nuts and sipped green tea, watched the bulbul birds darting from tree to tree.
Sometimes they went for walks among the bronze fallen leaves and alder bushes, along the stream and toward the mountains.
Mullah Faizullah twirled the beads of his tasbeh rosary as they strolled, and, in his quivering voice,
told Mariam stories of all the things he'd seen in his youth, like the two-headed snake he'd found in Iran,
on Isfahan's Thirty-three Arch Bridge, or the watermelon he had split once outside the Blue Mosque in Mazar,
to find the seeds forming the words Allah on one half, Akbar on the other.
Mullah Faizullah admitted to Mariam that, at times, he did not understand the meaning of the Koran's words.
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