I stood there for an hour, admiring the intricate patterns across both tombs, running my hand along the stone, feeling the cold tiles, the snow crunching beneath me. The Taraz winds were howling, and I could hear an organ-like sound coming from between the two tombs, the wind threading itself through the carved patterns, producing this low, mournful hum I wasn’t expecting. The door of Aisha Bibi’s tomb was creaking open and shut with each gust.