Once upon a time, there was a girl who loved stories.

Her name is Cyrus Shah, and she grew up in England not too long ago.

Cyrus' father was a storyteller, and her childhood was filled with tales of another country,

Afghanistan, a place over 3,000 miles away from her.

Cyrus' father told her stories of the glorious city of Pakman, where their ancestors had once lived.

In Pakman, there were gardens with flowers of bloom and trees heavy with fruit.

There were fountains flowing with healing waters, manicured paths through tree-lined streets,

and ornate buildings that gleamed in the sunlight against the backdrop of a vast mountain range.

Cyrus' father told ancient folk tales that had been passed down by his own father

and his grandfather before that.

They were riddles disguising important lessons.

Stories of magic and mystery.

Of heroes on quests, hidden treasures,

talking animals and dervishes who are wise old men who saw and knew

all.

Her father's stories would blend together, so Sire never quite knew what was real and what was

imagined, but they painted a picture of a land so

beautiful, so full of magic and possibility that Sira longed for this home that she had never seen

and begged to hear his tales over and over again until she too knew them by heart.

One of her favorite stories began, long ago, on the first day of spring.

The snow at the top of the Hindu Kush mountains began to thaw,

and a cold, icy stream was born, crystal clear and sparkling with newness.

...