Mom puts an arm around me. Clay and Waleed have taken a respectful step back, recognizing in the hunch of my shoulders and the bow of my head the posture of grief.

I pinch my nose with the tissue Mom has slipped into my hand, then clear my throat.

Waleed takes two steps forward.

“When did you say your family left, sister?” he asks.

“Before the Russians came,” I reply. I snap a few photos so I will have something to return to later. “I don’t know if anyone lived here after we left.”

I remember the general we’d seen sauntering out of my home so many years ago, as casually as if it were his brother’s home.

I slip to the ground and scoop up clumps of debris with two hands. Sand falls through my fingers. A sliver of glass. A piece of splintered wood, maybe from a window frame.

Two curious women in burqas walk past me. The mesh window of their chadoris are turned toward me.

My Rodabeh, my princess of Kabul. My father’s sweet words echo in my mind.

Your Kabul is gone, Shair had said to me all those years ago.

I rise, dust my hands off, and remind myself that even if the home had been in pristine condition, untouched by the onslaught of rockets this neighborhood suffered, it would not have brought me any peace.

I say a quick prayer under my breath.

I pray the rockets that destroyed this house did not claim the lives of innocents.

I pray a house will be erected on this land and children will experience the joy of waking up to the sound of their parents’ voices.

I pray the rubble I have held in the palm of my hand will not haunt me.

“Aryana. Are you okay?” Mom asks quietly. I nod.

I turn my back to the dust and walk back to Waleed’s car. I feel heavier and wonder what will become of me during this trip. But my father never averted his eyes, never walked out on meetings out of frustration.

“I want to see everything,” I tell Waleed as we all return to our seats in the car. My headscarf has once again started to slide, so I pull it toward my forehead. “Where should we go next?”

Mom and Clay exchange a glance.

“Aryana,” Clay says somberly, “we have time here. We can spread it out over the next few days.”

“Clay’s right, sweetheart,” Mom says.

“We should be busy over the next few days,” I reply. “I understand if you’d rather not, but I need to see exactly what I missed.”

Mom looks like she’s about to say something, then resists. She looks out her window, biting her lower lip.

“Then I suppose we have much to do. We will go to OMAR,” Waleed says.

Clay lets out a long, slow breath. We are back on the road, my home falling away.