Zafir opened his eyes. There was a chink in the ceiling, creating a thin shaft of light in the darkness that surrounded him. For a minute, he didn’t move. He watched the dust particles drifting in the light, trying to work out where he was and what had happened and if this was just part of his nightmare about falling bombs and tanks in the streets.

Far away, Zafir could hear voices. But they weren’t loud enough for him to understand what they were saying. He tried to sit up, but a pain around his ribs made him gasp. At least he knew he was awake and alive.

He put his hand out and felt the smooth wooden leg of the table. He remembered sliding under it just before the bomb hit. He explored further, holding his breath as he moved to try to stop the pain in his ribs. The table was on its side and he was sitting with his back against the underside of the tabletop.

He put his hand up, wincing, and felt a wooden beam that must have fallen when the walls came down. It would have crushed him if the table hadn’t been so strong.

How long had he been there? He looked around for his phone and found it on the floor nearby. The screen was smashed. As his memory of what had happened returned he remembered it had been dawn when he was up on the roof. He couldn’t see the face of his watch properly in the darkness but it looked as if both hands were pointing at the three. But that couldn’t be right. Maybe it had stopped during the night. Suddenly he felt as if the darkness was going to close in on top of him.

‘Help!’ he yelled, or at least he tried to. His throat was so dry he could only croak.

He started to crawl out from under the beam. Something sharp sliced his hand. He put his hand to his mouth. Blood – metallic and wet.

‘Help!’ he yelled again. Louder this time. At least the blood had moistened his throat.

‘Help!’

‘Can you hear that?’ The voice came clearly from above. ‘I’m sure I heard something down there. But it would be a miracle after all this time if the boy is alive.’

Tiny bits of rock trickled down. Zafir felt movement above him and the shaft of light was suddenly blocked.

‘I can see something glowing,’ the voice said.

‘Where?’ said another voice, one that Zafir knew well.

‘Uncle Ghazi!’

‘Zafir?’ Suddenly there was scrabbling above. More rocks rained down and there was a brief dazzle of light before it was blocked again and he found himself looking up at Uncle Ghazi’s face.

‘Stay there. Don’t move.’

‘Alhamdulillah, praise God! How can this be?’ Zafir heard other voices and soon the opening above was wide enough for Uncle Ghazi to lean down, drag Zafir up and crush him in a hug. The pain in Zafir’s ribs was incredible but he didn’t care.

Uncle Ghazi finally let him go. Both of them were grinning.

‘I’ve never been so pleased to see anyone in my life,’ said Uncle Ghazi. ‘Do you know how long you’ve been buried?’

Zafir shook his head.

‘At least ten hours,’ said Uncle Ghazi. ‘I still can’t believe you’re okay. Thank goodness for that helmet.’

Zafir touched his head. He was still wearing the helmet. He took it off and found that his head hurt too. His hair was sticky and he felt a lump.

‘There’s a good dent in it,’ said Uncle Ghazi. ‘If you hadn’t had that on … are you okay? Are you in any pain?’

Before he could answer someone else said, ‘Give him some water. And a blanket.’ He was handed a bottle of water and a blanket was wrapped around his shoulders.

Zafir started to recognise the people around him. There was Mr Shaamas from up the lane and Mr Mohammed. Mrs Mohammed, who was dressed as usual with a scarf around her head and a long-sleeved gown, stepped forward.

‘I was once a nurse,’ she said. ‘Let me look at him.’

Zafir looked up at her kind round face. He felt his legs wobble.

‘Take him over here,’ said Mrs Mohammed, pointing to the hard blue-and-gold striped sofa. It was sitting on top of a pile of rubble, next to a wall that was standing without any other walls attached. Mr Shaamas picked up Zafir and carried him over to the sofa. As Zafir lay on the couch he saw the glass doors that led to the courtyard were still in the wall. Through them he could see the fountain and the pots of geraniums. The courtyard looked the same, except the house that surrounded it wasn’t there anymore.

‘What’s your name?’ asked Mrs Mohammed. Zafir frowned. She knew his name. She’d known him since he was a baby.

‘Tell me your name,’ she said, so he told her. She then tugged on his arms and legs and looked closely at the cut on his head. All the while she asked him other questions like how old he was and what day of the week it was. He had to think about that, because the last thing he remembered was going to sleep on Sunday night waiting for the phone to ring.

‘Is it Monday?’ he asked.

She nodded. ‘Good.’ She pulled up his eyelids and checked his eyes and finally pronounced that except for possible cracked ribs, a cut on his hand and the lump on his head, he was okay.

‘Thank God,’ said Uncle Ghazi. Zafir hadn’t seen Uncle Ghazi since he’d been in prison. In some ways, he looked the same – tall, thin, his hair still in a ponytail – but there were lines on his face that hadn’t been there before. They made him look older. His face was grey, his eyes were bloodshot and there was stubble on his chin like he hadn’t shaved for a week.

‘You must take the boy to Damascus to his mother,’ said Mrs Mohammed. ‘Now that his tetah is—’

‘Hush now,’ said Mr Mohammed, cutting his wife off.

Zafir looked up. ‘Where’s Tetah? And Rosa?’ He sat up, hurting his ribs again. ‘What’s happened to them?’

All of the men looked away. Even Uncle Ghazi.

It was Mrs Mohammed who finally spoke. ‘The maid has been taken away to hospital. Your grandmother was found safe in the basement but while we were searching for you and everyone had given up hope she suffered heart failure.’

‘Is she … ?’ Zafir felt a coldness in his stomach that chilled him so much it numbed the pain in his ribs.

Mrs Mohammed shook her head. ‘She was still living when she left. The professor went with her, but we don’t know where.’ She wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron. ‘What did any of us do to deserve such troubles as these?’

No one could answer that question.

‘Alhamdulillah!’ Mr Mohammed suddenly called out. ‘I have discovered another miracle.’ He held up one of the red eggs. ‘The others in the basket are smashed but this one doesn’t even have a crack in it.’

‘Give it to the child,’ said Mrs Mohammed. She turned to Zafir and smiled. ‘I remember your father used to love painting eggs at Pascha as a boy. He would bring them around to all the neighbours – Christian, Muslim, Alawi. It didn’t matter to him.’ She sighed as she looked around at the rubble that had once been Tetah’s house. ‘So many memories.’

‘Come,’ her husband said to her. ‘It’s not safe to stay here. We must pack up and leave while we can and pray to Allah we have a home to come back to when all this is over.’

As Zafir held the miracle egg in his hands he remembered Mum’s words about an egg being a symbol of hope when everything was dark. He needed to believe this now more than ever.