Zara closed her eyes. She was seven again, sitting on her grandfather’s lap in this very room. His voice, cracked like old pottery, had first sung those lines:

Lakhon salam.

Mustafa jane rehmat pe lakhon salam. Shafi-e-roze jazza pe lakhon salam.

Upon Mustafa, the mine of mercy, a hundred thousand salutations. Upon the intercessor on the dreadful Day of Judgment, a hundred thousand salutations.