Sher Khan was the first of Akbar Khan’s business associates to arrive. Two tall men stood either side of him. They had been working closely with Idris all morning. ‘Jia Khan, our prayers are with you,’ he said, and then, introducing the two men, ‘My sons, Razi and Raza. My daughters and wife have been here since Fajr.’

‘Yes, Khan Baba. My family is grateful to your family,’ Jia said. It had been a long time since she’d been thankful for the support of her own people.

Sher Khan and his sons took their place with the mourners, waiting where the casket was to be brought. They were followed by an elderly man slowly navigating the stone steps of the house. When the man stumbled, a young woman with him reached out a hand to assist, but he knocked it back. Seeing Jia in the doorway seemed to give him the momentum he needed. His pace quickened and he eagerly placed his palm on her head upon greeting her, speaking in a dialect of Pashto she could not understand. Taking his hand in hers, she tried to thank him in a mix of English and the dialect of her family. The old man replied, tears in his eyes, and Jia looked to the young woman beside him for an explanation.

‘He is saying he owes a great debt to your family,’ said the young woman. ‘We are from your grandfather’s village in Afghanistan. Your father’s people, they helped us when we were in troubled times. We were one of many families who were captured by warlords. Your father helped us escape and brought us here. He looked after us. There were twenty families that he saved, good families, educated families, who had lost everything. But thanks to him we have rebuilt our lives. Thanks to your father, may God rest his soul, I am now able to support us, and my cousins, too, are educated professionals.’

In all the years that Jia had spent at her father’s house, he had remained tight-lipped about those he helped. The stories of the families, and the work that he had done to give them a life, were secrets he had taken to his grave.

The young woman’s words left Jia reconsidering her own experience of her father – of the small ways in which he had showered her friends with kindness, of the gifts he had bought them, knowing what each of them liked and disliked, winking at her as he handed them out – and she melted a little.

‘I work at the Akbar Khan refugee centre on weekends,’ the young woman said. ‘I would love you to visit and see how we plan to continue your father’s work.’

Jia smiled at the old man, still holding his hands in hers.