Abdul cannot remember anything.
The questions are rare now because they know a “No” will invariably follow. Occasionally there are flashes in those glassy eyes but who would notice? Now and then images will consume him.
Bright robes dirtied by runs through the markets. Seated figures and gossip under the old mango tree. Their wares spread out on rough cloth, they watch him fly his silk kites and ignore the cuts the thread gives him.
“No” he repeats to no one as he looks out his window. Surely the city and roads of tar were always there. “Surely I dreamt.”