“I’m looking for someone who might have lived here. In the 1980s. A woman named Kulsum.”

“She left you this address?” Zara asked.

“I don’t know,” Zara said. But as she walked back to the rickshaw, she clutched the yellow paper tightly. She would frame it. Not to shame her mother, but to honor her—the girl who had crawled through hell and still remembered the address, so that one day, her daughter could come and say: I see you. I see all of you.