It was not just a greeting. It was a rope tying the past to the future. It was the sound of peace, passing like a quiet flame from one trembling hand to another. And tonight, it had crossed an ocean.

"No," Rafiq said, firmly. "Listen."

"Abbaji," Kabir whispered, and Rafiq noticed he used the old honorific. "I forgot. I forgot how it sounds when you say it. It sounds like... home."

Then, a shaky breath. A rustle of cloth—as if Kabir had put his coffee cup down and sat up straight. When he spoke, his voice was small, a boy's voice again.

It was clumsy. The 'ain' was too hard, the rhythm off. But the intention was there. Like a first step after a broken leg.