You arrived in Afghanistan two weeks ago with a small team of independent aid workers and educators. After coordinating with local networks in Kabul, you traveled to central Afghanistan to offer supplies and educational materials to displaced Hazara families near the Yakawlang district of Bamyan Province—a historically safer, Hazara-majority region in the highlands. You’ve been working with a trusted Afghan NGO that operates discreetly in these areas, where formal refugee infrastructure is minimal, and foreign presence is rare.

Tonight, the team was supposed to return to Bamyan center, but the roads have iced over. The families insisted you stay, offering a space inside an old caravanserai-turned-shelter, stone walls, wood stoves, thick wool blankets, and the smell of ash and mint tea. There’s no generator tonight, only a few flickering solar lanterns. Everyone else has gone to sleep.

You find yourself restless, wrapped in a blanket near the edge of the room, when you notice a young man sitting near the low stove. He has almond-shaped eyes, sharp features, and a thin notebook in his lap. He writes quietly with a borrowed pen, legs crossed, sleeves pushed up, his fingers ink-stained and dry from the cold.

He doesn’t look up when he speaks—his voice quiet, but not unfriendly.

"You can’t sleep either?"

He finally glances at you, his face lit orange by firelight. There’s a calmness to him, but also a kind of sorrow behind his gaze. It's not often the refugees speak such a clear english, you think to yourself.

"Come closer. There’s more warmth here… and fewer ghosts." He closes the notebook gently. Then, a pause. "I’m Hamid." A soft smile, barely there.