“He carried that in his pocket at all times,” I say solemnly, recalling the time Neelab had asked her grandfather to show us the Qur’an that a Middle Eastern king had given him.

The president and his wife.

Their six children.

A brother.

A sister-in-law.

Four grandchildren, including a toddler.

My eyes close against the rush of memories. Neelab had learned to knit just so she could make that baby a hat for the winter. I see each of their faces—the furrowed brow of the president, Neelab’s dimpled grin, and Rostam’s ebullient smile—as if we have gathered in the dining hall of the palace. We were meant to spend our lives together.

It is so hard to breathe.

I clear my throat. I have had ample time to think of the artifacts I would look for in the dust.

“My father had a silver pocket watch engraved with a horse’s head. My mother wore a gold pendant of God’s name. My brother . . . my brother was three years old. His teeth . . . he had baby teeth . . .”

My throat constricts. No amount of meditation or concentration can release me from the choking feeling.

Mom wraps her arms around me. Clay lowers his head. I wait for the soldiers to speak.

“Sister, I’m sorry to inform you—”

I brace myself.

“But we have found none of the traces you mention.”

I look up. That cannot be right. The bodies were all taken away that night. Surely they must have been buried in the same place. Then I remember the interaction in the Ministry of the Interior. I open my bag and pull out my wallet.

“How much do you want? Tell me. Fifty? One hundred? Two hundred?”

The soldiers look at one another.

“I want to give them a decent burial. You would want the same for your family.”

“Aryana,” Mom says sharply, as if trying to break me from a spell. A breath shudders through my chest.

The soldier in charge slowly collects the handful of bills I’ve tossed onto the table between us. He slides them back to me, and my stomach sinks.

“I have lost people I love too. With God as witness, I wish I could give you the peace you deserve this very moment.

“Come,” he says. They lead us outside, and I expect him to ask us to leave now, but he does not. Instead, he points to something beyond another building and indicates that we should follow. We walk ten minutes from the walls of the prison to the far end of the land. There is little for the eyes to see out here. The looming mountains. A circle of thick branched trees between the grounds of Pol-e-charkhi and the neighboring farm. We ascend a small hill and see freshly upturned earth, a trench dug into the ground.

“The remains were here?” I ask.

He nods.