Parvana’s family consists of Parvana herself; her father, Nurullah, a former history teacher who lost part of his leg in a bombing; her mother, Fatana; her older sister, Nooria; and her baby brother, Ali. They also had an older brother named Hossain who died during the war before the story begins.

The Kabul marketplace buzzed with noise—vendors shouting prices, donkeys braying, carts rattling over the hard ground. Dust swirled around Parvana’s sandals as she sat beside her father on a thin blanket spread across the street.

In front of them lay a small pile of goods: a few old household items and her father’s writing supplies. It wasn’t much.

Her father adjusted himself carefully, stretching his injured leg out to the side. “Sit up straight, Parvana,” he said gently. “If we look serious, people will take us seriously.”

“I am serious,” Parvana muttered, brushing dust off a metal teapot. “No one wants this stuff.”

“Patience,” he replied. “Patience is a skill.”

A man stopped in front of them. “Can you read this?” he asked, holding out a folded paper.

Her father’s face brightened. “Of course.” He took the paper and smoothed it carefully. His voice grew steady and clear as he read the letter aloud. The man listened closely, eyes fixed on the ground.

Parvana watched her father as he read. His voice changed when he read letters—stronger, more confident. Like the teacher he used to be.

When the man left, dropping a few coins into her father’s hand, Parvana leaned closer. “What did it say?”

“News from a son,” her father answered quietly. “He is safe.”

Parvana nodded. She liked hearing that word—safe.

Another passerby slowed down, glancing at their small pile of goods.

“Strong teapot!” Parvana called out suddenly. “Still pours perfectly!”

Her father looked at her with surprise—and then pride. “Yes,” he added. “And we also read letters, write letters, and settle arguments with knowledge.”

Parvana rolled her eyes. “No one pays for knowledge.”

“They should,” her father said with a soft smile. “Knowledge is worth more than any teapot.”

She sighed but smiled back. Even when the coins were few and the sun was hot, sitting beside him made the day feel less heavy.

Above them, the noise of the market carried on—but on their small blanket, it felt like its own little world.