The daylong wait had felt interminable, but when the guard finally nodded for me to go in, my turn seemed to come too soon. I hesitated at the door. Panicked about what I was going to say. Forgot to breathe. Wiped my sweaty palms on my jeans. Wished I’d brought a flask. Had the urge to bolt.

But I didn’t bolt.

I took one step forward.

And another.

And there she was.

Her eyes were closed when I approached the table. Eli, the Times writer who hadn’t missed a day, had prepared me for this. “Her eyes will be closed when you walk in. She keeps them closed until you take her hands and she gets a feel for you.”

I felt glad for it. It gave me a chance to take her in without seeing the scorn and disappointment I was expecting.

She was wearing a ruffly, dusty rose–colored satin gown, the top half of it a dainty camisole. Her arms were thin and pale like the branches of an aspen in winter, her collarbones prominent and graceful underneath the shoulder ties of the dress. She wore no makeup, no jewelry, no shoes, and her hair was pulled back into a knot, though the layers in front hung like wispy fringe around her face. She looked radiantly tired, the way someone carrying burdens is tired. And she was even lovelier than I remembered.

The inside of the house surprised me. When I think of museums, I think architectural austerity, but that’s not October’s style. The chairs were covered in supple white leather, so plush it looked like whipped cream. The table was polished redwood, and I tried not to attach any meaning to that. There was a thick, shaggy carpet underneath the table, and the subtle tint in the glass walls cast a delicate, rubicund glow over everything.

I sat down slowly, moved to the edge of the seat, and slid my palms underneath October’s hands. I was nervous, though my composure remained intact as I felt her gently grip my fingers.

In a matter of seconds, I heard her breath catch somewhere in her chest. A tiny, cognizant gasp.

She recognized me.

My heart pounded against my chest like a fist against a door while I waited for her to open her eyes, but she kept them closed for so long I worried she wasn’t going to open them at all.

“October,” I said. “Look at me.”

Her face was a blank canvas as she raised her chin and adjusted her posture. Then she took another deep breath and braced herself.

When she finally opened her eyes, a noise escaped my throat. A laugh or a cry, it was hard to tell. I began to sob, but I was smiling too. A stupid, blubbering grin. I couldn’t help it. I was happy to see her.

I pulled myself together as best I could and said, “Hey.”

Her face stayed as neutral as Switzerland, but her eyes were wide and shiny, and a few thick, elegant tears dripped down her cheeks.