In Babur’s gardens, I saw a grave for a king who was just as dead as any peasant. His tomb may have been built of marble, and it may have been more spacious than others, but it was still a grave. The gardens around it made it a place of beauty. Shair had chosen to bury his son in a place that was peaceful because of the evergreens and the flowers people laid on the tombstones. Even in life, we crave the green lush of heaven’s gardens.

I wonder if the soldier who drove the last of the bodies away from Arg had seen that circle of giant trees. I wonder if he took Shair’s words to heart and decided to lay those bodies to rest among woody giants with a view of Paradise in their green canopy.

I walk around the corner of the compound and head in the direction of the excavation site. I walk quickly, not wanting anyone to catch up to me right away. The closer I get to the site, the less explaining and convincing I’ll have to do. I hear a car door slam behind me.

I look over my shoulder and see that Mom is watching me from a distance. Maybe she’s staying back so she doesn’t draw more attention to me crossing this dusty plain. Maybe she knows I need to make this small trek on my own.

I pull my headscarf across my mouth and nose. My throat already feels rough and parched.

As I approach the hill, I hear the echo of distant shouts. Up ahead, I can see the circle of soaring trees at the far end of the shooting range. I look over my shoulder once more and see two men peering out from a guard tower. I can’t make out what they’re saying. It’s hard to hear with my pulse thrumming in my ears.

My step quickens. I break into a jog, wanting to be there already. I slip and fall onto my knees. I am back on my feet without stopping to dust myself off. I reach the circle of trees and rest my hand on the gnarled bark of a giant. The girth of their trunks testifies to the decades they have lived in this spot, this small community of sentries, witnessing and guarding Kabul’s secrets.

The earth here is untouched, the circle twenty paces wide. I catch my breath, wondering where I should begin. I walk to the center and take a moment to absorb the tranquility. It is possible, from here, to ignore the prison beyond the berm. It is possible, in this remote copse, to feel a few beats of peace or hope. I fall to my knees, close my eyes, and wait for a sign, some spectral nod, that I am right.

“Doctor-sahib!” a voice calls out. I open my eyes and spot two men coming toward me.