I recognized the box that held the ring well before my father opened the clasp. This was the only piece we’d glimpsed last night. Neelab let out a dainty ooh. My best friend was the kind of daughter mothers wanted, one who would wear prim dresses and pearls. She could sit for hours without making a peep and didn’t go home with muddy knees, as I did.

While Neelab was mesmerized by the gold and the stones, I was stunned by the ring’s ability to outlive anyone who had worn it.

“This piece is exquisite,” Boba admired. The turquoise shone richly against the lustrous gold. “Just imagine that two thousand years ago, a craftsman made this ring by hand with nothing more than a hammer and a flame. The design comes from Greece, but the gold and turquoise are Afghan. Such intricate settings. As if the craftsman knew his work would become evidence of a lost civilization.”

“Maybe he did know,” I suggested.

“It’s unlikely. People cannot imagine their civilization will not endure forever. Pride is blinding.”

“Why will this all be put into the museum? Why not display it here in the palace?” Neelab asked.

“Because it’s part of Afghanistan’s history and history belongs to the people.”

As I watched my father pack the boxes away and slide the top back on the crate, one question nagged at me.

“What brought the end of Ai-Khanoum, Boba?”

My father gave the crate one quick tap with the heel of his fist.

“Didn’t invaders come at them from the East?” Neelab asked.

Boba straightened his back and looked at us, the slanted light of the bulb reflecting off his lenses.

“Yes. But if it hadn’t been invaders from the East, it would have been invaders from the West,” he explained. “Our land seems to attract the most restless men. Every single one looking to make a name for himself, no matter the price.”

Boba shut the safe and gave each of the three dials one quick spin. He sealed off the compartment again, and we retraced our steps back up the stairs, floorboards again creaking and groaning. Once we were in the kitchen, my father kissed the top of my head and touched Neelab’s chin.

“Sahib!” a soldier called out from the doorway. He pulled his feet together and drew his shoulders back.

“Yes, what is it?”

“The president is asking for you. Urgently, sir.”

My father nodded.

“History lesson is over for now, girls,” Boba said with a wan smile. His eyes looked heavy with shadows, even in the bright light of the kitchen. There were lines etched into his forehead and a heaviness in his step. It occurred to me that I’d not seen my father sleep in days. “Promise you’ll stay out of trouble.”