Shan leaned her face into the breeze. It ruffled her hair, kissed her cheeks. An elderly man with a cane meandered across the street. He appeared to be in his eighties, about the same age as Deepa, the same age as Amir. She strained to look for any resemblance to her or her father, but saw none. No matter. It still gave her great comfort to be in the city he once inhabited, to be able to imagine what he might look like today. Chandani pulled the camera back inside the car, glanced over to Shan as if she’d just read her thoughts. She reached over, patted her knee.

“Shan,” she said. “It won’t be long now.”

The next evening at the hotel, Chandani picked out one of her own sari blouses, a lavender one, looped it through Shan’s arms, fastened it along her bare back. Shan had packed black pants and a pale yellow blouse for the event, was surprised at Chandani’s insistence she wear a sari. The blouse was a little tight on her shoulders, but it otherwise fit. The sari was a deep eggplant with orange embroidery along the trim.

“But I’ve never worn one before,” Shan protested, the irony of her statement obvious as soon as the words left her mouth. She was half Indian, yet had not worn any type of Indian clothing in thirty years. There was never a reason for her to. She would have felt like an imposter. And yet, here was Chandani, encircling her with cloth, tucking the folds in the front of Shan’s petticoat.

“But how will I walk?” Shan asked.

“I haven’t amputated your feet,” Chandani said, laughing. “You’ll walk exactly the same as you always do.” She studied Shan tenderly. “What’s the matter? Are you nervous?”

“Maybe a little.” She was so nervous. This was the end of the line. She had exhausted all other leads. If this sculptor was not Laila, there was probably no other route to Amir. She had kept this trip a secret from Deepa. She had wanted to wait until she could be sure this Laila was the Laila.

Shan’s search had kept her anchored, given her a purpose. She wanted to find Amir, but she also wanted something else—the feeling of interconnectedness between her family members, between the generations, the knowledge that she was a part of a larger story of the people she loved and their histories. This mattered to her too.

“It’s going to be fine, Shan,” Chandani said. “I just know it.” She positioned Shan in front of a mirror, laid her hands on her shoulders. “Come,” she said. “It’s time for us to go.”

A glass building sat at the corner of an intersection. Lahore Museum of Contemporary Art was carved in a large slab of blue stone. A white sign draped above the door. Laila Rahim’s Departures, now through August 31.