An invisible eraser wipes the Russian graffiti off the wall. The floorboards are back.
Laila sees a pair of sleeping cots now, a wooden table, two chairs, a cast iron stove in the corner,
shelves along the walls, on which sit clay pots and pans, a blackened teakettle, cups and spoons.
She hears chickens clucking outside, the distant gurgling of the stream.
A young Mariam is sitting at the table making a doll by the glow of an oil lamp.
She'humming something. Her face is smooth and youthful, her hair washed, combed back. She has all her teeth.
Laila watches Mariam glue strands of yarn onto her doll's head.
In a few years, this little girl will be a woman who will make small demands on life, who will never burden others,
who will never let on that she too has had sorrows, disappointments, dreams that have been ridiculed.
A woman who will be like a rock in a riverbed, enduring without complaint, her grace not sullied but shaped by the turbulence that washes over her.
Already Laila sees something behind this young girl's eyes, something deep in her core, that neither Rasheed nor the Taliban will be able to break.
Something as hard and unyielding as a block of limestone. Something that, in the end, will be her undoing and Laila's salvation.
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