It came like a shadow—the memory of Bahr pointing up to the ceiling the day he’d told me about the village that lived in corners. I grabbed Leila’s arm and hauled her back into the room, and we stood together by the concrete pillar next to the window, her back pressed against the wall and me facing her, encircling her body with my arms.

And I remembered the hospital, the doctor leading me down the long curving corridor to where Alya lay alone, caught between sleep and waking. I remembered sitting on the edge of the bed as Alya slowly opened and closed her eyes, then blinked rapidly several times as if to make certain I was there. I remembered her taking my hand and placing it gently on her stomach. Remembered her saying:

“I was going to call her Leila. But there’s no her now, no anyone. Nothing left to hold anyone. They took everything out.”

I sobbed.

She said, “I’m Leila.”

She didn’t let me call her Alya ever again.

Here we were now, down on the floor of the room, and the room shaking, and I still couldn’t tell: Was this the sound of everything collapsing or was it just the marching feet down below? What’s the word for the tramp of footsteps, Alya? Waeed?

I crawled over to the window, pulled myself up, and looked out. Faces were beginning to come clear in the hotel’s glow, and now I understood why I’d felt that sense of familiarity. There was Amany Assayyid. There was Zeinhom. I thought I saw my mother and my father, who was—how odd—in the same white vest he’d always worn. And I was looking for Alya and me, walking together, but a hand snatched me back before I could see.

I turned to find her staring at me. She pulled me to her, and we sat together on the rippling floor. Holding me tight she said, “There’s one thing I haven’t lost. Not yet. Listen.”

She brought her lips to my ear and sang me silence.