The perfect place turns out to be a room laid out exactly like mine. But layout is all the two rooms have in common. The furniture, including the bed, features a lot of brass and has a delicate look with swaths of sheer, gauzy fabric strung about as if a production of A Mid-Summer’s Night Dream might break out at any moment. And unlike my comparatively spare room, this one is stuffed with a collection of random artifacts. A bright pink 80s-era child’s bike with an overlong seat; several planks of wood; a surfboard; a number of colorful kites; and even a sideboard console—the kind that used to come with built-in record players.

One wall is comprised of shelves stuffed with paperbacks and hardcover books. But it seems an entire wall of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves isn’t enough because each shelving block has several stacks of books piled in front of them. The piles are taller than Aisha and only a little shorter than me. I get the feeling they were probably not nearly as organized when the former resident lived there.

When they lived there. Not to get all superstitious like Sylvie, but I can almost feel the presence of a spirit linked to this room. Vibrant and messy, even though someone has gone through a lot of trouble to neatly stack the books and push the assortment of vintage stuff against the walls. Neither my mother nor father kept in touch with their parents, but this room helps me better understand the phrase, “like your grandma’s attic.”

At first, the room is delightful—like stumbling into a treasure-filled vault.

But then I look past the collection of random hodgepodge and begin to notice the walls. Someone has scribbled all over them in a swirly language that reminds me faintly of Thai or Japanese but is neither…nor is it Arabic. In some places the writing is neat, but in others it is little more than angry slashes. There are also angry slashes on the hardwood floor. Some appears to have been written using the same ink, but there are a disconcerting few that are clearly shallow carvings. The kind that can only result from using a butter knife or fork…

I look over my shoulder at Nabida who is peering around the room as if she is equally as wonder and horror struck as me.

“Who lived here?” I ask Aisha. The little girl has crossed the room to the sideboard console, slid open its bottom door, and begins picking through the collection of brightly-colored records neatly shelved inside.

“Ama Hiba, but she’s dead now.” Aisha pauses just long enough to let her shoulders sag. “I miss her. Baba used to let me visit our aunt whenever he came to speak with the sheikh. But she died right before Amo Zahir became king and I had no one here to play with.”

She brightens. “But now I have you! And I’ll make Baba bring me every time he comes to meet with Amo Zahir.”

I can tell the little girl is lonely and I try not to feel guilty that I’ll only be here for another five months and then I’ll probably never step foot in Jahwar again.

“Your aunt…is she…was she your uncle’s mother?”

Aisha tips her head in the way of a child who has never given much thought to how people are connected to anyone but herself. “Yeah, I guess she was,” she answers.

I turn my gaze to Nabida for confirmation but the little attendant quickly lowers her eyes, as if defending herself from any questions I might want to ask her.

I look at the books… the record-filled sideboard…the easels and dark ink. And though I already have a feeling I won’t like the answer, I have to ask the little girl, “Aisha, did you ever see her outside this room?”

“No, she was very sick inside her head and because of that, she was not allowed to come out.”

I check with Nabida and her stoically lowered head tells me this version of the story must be true.

Not allowed to come out. She was the wife of a sheikh, but like me, she was kept in a gilded cage far from where people could see her.

A chill runs down my back.

“Oh, here it is!” Aisha pops up back to standing with a tomato red record in her hands. “This was my favorite to dance to with Ama,” she says lifting up the hinged lid of the console to reveal the record player embedded inside. “But we must wait a few minutes for the music guts inside to warm up…”

She presses down on a switch and the sideboard powers up with a thunk before emitting a heavy hum. I notice this particular piece of furniture is not like the walls and floor. It’s lacquered wood remains unmolested and gleaming with care. Zahir’s mother must have really loved this old-fashioned music device, and I imagine her in here, listening to the record player like I listen to music on the smart speaker when I’m studying or all alone.

After a few minutes, the humming stops and Aisha slides the record out of its sleeve. She puts it on the turntable so expertly, I can almost see the amount of time she’s spent in this room as she places the needle. A few sterolicious clicks later, what sounds like sixties-era Bollywood dance music fills up the room.

I’ve never heard music played on one of these vintage consoles. And the sound quality is shockingly rich and warm without the electronic circuits of the smart home speaker to modulate.

And as for the music…

I don’t understand a thing the Elvis-esque male crooner and reedy-voiced female singer are saying. But I easily bounce up and down to it, following Aisha’s lead. I can’t imagine anyone staying seated while this particular upbeat song is playing—though Nabida shakes her head and both hands when I try to get her to join in.

“This is something else Ama taught me!” Aisha yells over the music, knocking her hands back and forth and swirling them down to the rhythm of the wild syncopated drum beat. I do it, too, laughing and glad we finally get this chance to dance together. I can’t remember the last time I had so much fun—

We both come to an abrupt stop when we see the man in a floor-length tunic and a black-and-white-patterned head dress, standing in the door with two elite guards behind him.

“Amo Zahir!” Aisha yells over the music. At first she looks as if she might give him another of her running hugs. But she falters when she sees the look on his face. Thunderous and outraged.

“Turn off the music.” Strange, Zahir doesn’t appear to be yelling, but we can easily hear him over the full orchestra playing underneath the song.

I walk over to the sideboard and flip the switch, stopping it and the record player all in one go. By the time I’m done, Aisha’s face looks like it’s on the verge of crumpling. “Amo Zahir, I was only showing Princess—Ms. Prin—Ama’s room! Why are you so angry with us?”

Zahir doesn’t answer, just speaks to Nabida and my female guards in low, angry Arabic. Nabida steps forward as soon as he’s done and escorts a tearful Aisha from the room while a female guard says to me, “This way please.”

Playtime, I sense even before the guard deposits me back in my room less than ten minutes later, is definitely over.