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.
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