We pass an eighteenth-century horseman carved of wood. A stone vase with nude figures in relief. A traditional Kuchi-style Afghan dress. We turn a corner and come upon a slab of concrete carved with the letters of an ancient world.

“This is the Rabatak inscription from the rule of Emperor Kanishka,” Nasrat explains. “The writing is Bactrian and Greek. It is from the second century.”

Clay snaps a couple of pictures with his phone, testing different angles.

“Our history includes many rulers, many religions.” Nasrat’s brows lift in the direction of the doorway, and he speaks to Clay in a mock-conspiratorial tone. “But we speak this softly. No need to wake the Taliban.”

“Do you have any pieces from Ai-Khanoum?” I ask.

“Doctor-sahib, thank you for asking about Ai-Khanoum,” Nasrat says. He walks us to the end of the room and points to a row of empty glass cases.

“Most Bactrian pieces are not here,” he laments softly. His accent is heavy, but his command of English remarkable. He goes on to tell us about the shell game played with relics of the ancient world—artifacts moved from the museum to the Serena Hotel, to vaults beneath the bank. Many were looted along the way and fell into the international black market.

“The Begram ivories were stolen and sold and are now in England’s museum. Our antiquities are more welcome than refugees. But slowly, inshallah, we will bring them home. This is my work,” Nasrat says with pride.

I get the feeling that an older man should be doing this work, one with gray hair and a wrinkled face and musty books on his shelves. But there are few old men in this country. This is a land of adolescence, pockmarked and developing, challenging authority and stepping into the shoes of ancestors.

Nasrat is a hopeful academic. He teaches at the university. He has a wife and two children, and he hopes his children will benefit from the teachings of history.

“This small corner of Kabul,” he says, waving his arm to point to the carefully arranged artifacts in the room, “one day many people will come to see. Regime comes and goes. Alexander and his servant—both are dust. A bowl, a hairpin, a ring—only the things we create stay and tell our story.”

Nasrat looks at me, his eyes well with conviction.

“Doctor-sahib, you save a person’s life in this moment. A museum will save our lives after we are gone.”

I thought I would be inspecting the museum’s walls and fixtures to see if the building was secure enough to hold the ring. But it is Nasrat who makes me realize that the ring’s fate is no less important than the museum’s fate. This institution deserves this piece of history.

“I have something that should be here,” I say. “Could we step into your office for a moment? I need you to promise to make it part of the collection.”