Even as I write this I know that people in Arina have forgotten almost everything about them. It is plain to me. I would talk to my father about all the silver they had paid us and he would be puzzled, like he did not know where it had all come from. I would ask the innkeeper, Arafat, about them, only to see him struggle to remember. “They slept for three days here, right? I didn’t talk to them too much,” he would tell me, then quickly change the subject to something more mundane.
They had, in fact, slept in his inn for months.