Arghawan, Arghawan… wake up.

You’ve missed your morning prayer.

I open my eyes to my mother’s voice.
Her harsh coughing had finally eased last night,
and for the first time in three years,
I slept peacefully.

Cold water on my face wakes me up as I make ablution.
After praying, I go to the storage room and pull out the long black dress from the box.
I grab my black scarf and mask.

My fingers sting — blisters run across the middle joints of my right hand,
and two fingers on my left hand are still raw from fresh burns.

In the mirror, I see myself — my past self.
The girl with the colorful scarf,
two tiny white and green clips holding back half-open hair resting on her shoulders.
Long nails painted white.

I wrap the black scarf tightly around my head and pull it down to my eyebrows.
My eyes fall on the box of high-heeled boots I hid away three years ago.
I slip on my plain black boots instead.

Khahar-jani, bring that cotton candy again — the rose-flavored one!

Armaghan shouts after him:
“No, bring the white one! Not the pink, the white!”

Mother waves at me from behind the window.

I walk through the third alley of Sarai-e-Shomali toward Qala-e-Najjarha
and ring the bell at house number 6 in the second alley.

Zarghona opens the door and shoots me a sharp look for being a few minutes late.
I follow her down to the basement.

Ignoring the stares and whispers,
I head straight to the table.
The iron is already hot.

Zarghona raises her voice:
“Ladies, turn off your machines for a moment.
The director is coming.”

Mohammad Ayan walks in with his usual polite smile,
greeting everyone.

“My sisters, from today onward,
another colleague will join Sister Zarghona in managing the women’s department,
organizing schedules, processing salaries,
approving urgent leave, and overseeing new sewing projects.”

“And it’s best that this person is chosen from among you.”

The women’s eyes shift from him to each other.

Miss Arghawan, Bachelor of Economics, Kabul University.

His voice echoes in my ears.
My head lifts on its own.
My back straightens.
My shoulders rise.

I see my father in front of me wearing white,
smiling just like the day the results of the 2017 university entrance exam were announced.

“The taste of success.”

The women murmur wah and ah.
Excitement and anxiety shake my hands.

I grab my handbag and walk past their stares
with my head held high.

On the third floor, Mohammad Ayan opens a door.
The room is spacious and tidy,
with a sofa,
a large cabinet full of colorful files,
and several mannequins dressed in the workshop’s designs.

“This workshop’s door isn’t just an entrance —
it’s the livelihood of thirty women,
each one the head of her household,
just like you.”

The scent of cardamom fills the room.

“They may come for inspection.
Starting next Saturday,
I’ll wear traditional clothes and a turban,
and I won’t shave my beard anymore.”

After he leaves,
the feeling of my old office life washes over me.

I run my hand across the large wooden desk,
the computer,
the files.

I pick up the pen,
sit in the chair,
and tap the pen lightly on the table.

Sunday… where was I three years ago?

Sweat gathers on my forehead.
My throat dries.

At lunchtime,
I hesitantly told Zarghona I wanted to speak with the director.

“I know it hasn’t been a month since I started,
but… I need money.”

My father was a military commander in Kapisa.
He was martyred before the fall.

My older brother was a guard at the Continental Hotel.
He was killed in the attack.

“Now I live with my mother,
my younger sister,
and my little brother.”

“I was a project manager for women’s empowerment programs
at the Afghan Women’s Support Institute,
in partnership with the UK.”

“So you know how to write project proposals?”

“Very well.”

“I’ve been needing someone like you.”

The pen slips from my hand.
I open my eyes.

I open a new document on the computer
and begin drafting the full proposal.