Elyas followed Jia through the hallway, past the odd mourner and into the study. The smell of furniture polish and oranges flooded his mind with memories of the night Zan had died. This was the room he’d argued with Akbar Khan in. The oxblood chair in the corner looked a little more worn, its leather now softer and more inviting. It crossed his mind how different things could have been if he’d held his tongue, if he had left it to Jia to fight his corner. They could have raised Ahad together, Zan may still have been alive, and maybe Jia would still be the woman he’d married. The silence felt heavy. Elyas didn’t know if it was the circumstances of today or the past that weighted them down, but he knew if he didn’t ask now, he never would.

‘What happened to us, Jia?’ he said.

She looked up at him through her tired eyes and he wanted to hold her, to support her, the way he always had, smooth life over and make everything better.

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I am sorry.’

He wasn’t ready for the apology, but he didn’t want to fight either. Time was a precious commodity, one he didn’t want to squander on bitter words and accusations; but still, answers were needed. And so he measured himself.

‘You didn’t answer my calls, or reply to the letters I sent. I thought you blamed me for Zan.’ He was afraid of what she might say but he also had to know. He tightened the lid on his need, knowing it to be futile. None of it would bring back what he really wanted, the life he had wanted with her.

‘Maybe I did,’ she said. The air in her lungs felt musty; it was time to speak. ‘I needed time to process everything. But by the time I was ready, too much of it had passed, and for that I will always be sorry.’

‘I waited for you. We waited for you…to hear from you.’

‘I know. Believe me, I know what I have lost.’ As if on cue, the door opened and Ahad came in. He looked oddly small, and Elyas was overcome with the desire to scoop him up and take him home, to avoid the questions and conflicts that were to come, to halt the heartbreak on this path. But they were here now, and there was no turning back.

Jia watched her son walk around his grandfather’s study, stopping at a collection of photographs. He picked up a faded picture of Akbar Khan, their resemblance undeniable. The answer to so many questions had been buried today, alongside him.