It wasn’t until the 9/11 attacks that Americans turned their attention back to Afghanistan’s caves. I couldn’t get away from the country’s news then—a manhunt in the caves of Tora Bora, airstrikes on remote villages, girls liberated. Sure, some civilians were dying, but it probably wasn’t that many. Who had time for that math? More important were the grandmothers who had walked miles to choose their next president with an inked finger.

When I read about the bags of cash the CIA delivered to the new president of the country, I almost heard my father’s voice—corruption doesn’t happen without cooperation.

My homeland, my story, overwhelms me. Some nights turn into morning and I realize I’ve been surfing the web for hours trying to make sense of war and politics.

It had seemed safer to focus my energies on a fairy tale, and so I turned to Anastasia Romanov as a healthier option, like snacking on celery sticks instead of fries. But eventually, my obsession waned. I’d read all there was to read about the fate of the Romanovs, and new breadcrumbs appeared only rarely. I had stopped poking around altogether—until last summer. I’d finished dictating the last of my operating reports over the phone in the physician lounge and, on a whim, typed “Anastasia Romanov” into the search box of the internet browser.

They had uncovered more bodies, those of the missing. The DNA tests confirmed that they were the final two missing Romanov children, one set of remains representing each child. Anastasia had not escaped.

I’d stepped out of the physician lounge and called Mom.

She didn’t survive, I blurted out. They found more bodies.

What bodies? Who are you talking about?

Anastasia.

Mom was silent.

Romanov. Anastasia Romanov.

Mom still said nothing.

Did you hear me? It’s confirmed now. She never made it out. All this time, people have been wondering—

Aryana, listen to me. Mom’s voice had been steely and low. She sounded like she was trying to reach through the phone line and reset me. You are not Anastasia. You are you, and you are here.

Of course, I had said, suddenly understanding how unhinged I sounded. I’d felt a heat creep up my neck as I tried to regain my composure. I know. I just thought it was interesting.

If I leave the house now, I can be there in—

Mom, I’m really fine, I’d said to her in a voice I’d perfected—bright enough to reassure but not so saccharine as to alarm her. And anyway, I’m getting together with Dayo tonight.

Anastasia Romanov had inspired books, movies, conspiracy theorists, and imposters. People put time and money into investigating her fate. But were they hoping to find Anastasia alive or hoping to prove bullets and blades had ended her too? What titillating truth did people want to hear?