Shan sat down next to Laila and told her about her father’s move to Delhi with the hopes of one day finding Amir, and his sudden death in his thirties. She explained how she came to find Deepa, and then how she found Laila through an article about her exhibit.

Laila touched Shan’s shoulder. “You and I are family. What a gift this is for the both of us! What a journey you’ve had to make so that we could share in this magical moment. I am your great-aunt! You are Amir’s granddaughter! But I don’t even know your name.”

It was such a simple, straightforward question, one that Shan now found herself having difficulty answering. What was her name? When she’d shortened it as a child, she scrubbed her father, his legacy, from her identity as if it was a pesky stain. She had been Shan for so long, she thought she knew who she was as Shan.

“Shanti,” she finally said. An image returned, of her and her father walking toward the Taj Mahal, of the way he looked at her when he said it. His voice from years ago echoed in her ear. “My father called me Shanti.”

“Shanti means peace,” Laila said. “Did you know that?”

“I do,” she said. “I do.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Lahore

September 3, 1947

Soon it will be dawn. From the front bedroom, Amir can barely make out the low voices in the kitchen. His parents and aunt and uncle have been up the whole night talking. Arguing. His aunt complains about the financial strain of keeping their family. His father ensures them they won’t stay much longer. They’ll find a new home soon.

Laila’s snores whistle from her side of the bedroll. Her eyes twitch twice, still. The curling tendrils of her hair wind tightly around in her fist. He crawls to her, rests the side of his face against her back, listens to the thrum of her beating heart. His head moves with the undulation of her breath.

He rights himself, removes the envelope from the pocket of his shirt, checks the contents—a letter to his parents explaining where he is going and why, a letter to Laila promising he will write to her often, will visit her soon. And finally, a paper lotus.

Amir lights a candle, locates a pen. On the back of Laila’s letter he adds a request, one he hopes his sister will never have to fulfill. Should anything happen to me, I need you to find a way to get this lotus to Deepa. He writes down Deepa’s Delhi address. He then inscribes four words underneath the petals of the lotus: Forgive me, my wife.