ABSTRACT
Hollering above the racket of the road, I finally stirred the caretaker. Expecting an aging man named Rahimullah, once popular among visitors for his storytelling, I instead was greeted by his son, Samir; his father had died two years before. The doors closed, the cacophony dulled to the buzz of a bee-loud glade. Before me spread a bounded refuge of peach trees, graveled paths braided with rose bushes, and machine-manicured grass dotted with irregular-shaped headstones.
