Her nightgown hung on a hook on the back of the door. The San Francisco Examiner, her lifelong favorite paper, lay on the nightstand, folded open to the crossword puzzle, which was only about half done.

Her mom’s nightly ritual was to do the puzzle, then read herself to sleep. When Natalie was little, Mom used to let her help. Now she immediately saw the answer to 23 across: carrion bird, four letters ending in s—ibis. And 39 down: graceful, three blanks followed by -some. Lissome. She almost reflexively filled them in.

A small stack of books and a pair of reading glasses were in their usual spot on the nightstand. Natalie picked up the top book. Acts of Light. Publisher’s Advance Reading Copy—Not for Sale. Mom loved her sneak preview books from publishers, and longtime sales reps had come to value her opinion. There was a handwritten note from the author on the title page, thanking Blythe for being a good steward of books and readers.

Natalie opened to the marked page. A shiver went through her. Was this the last thing her mother had read?

She started reading at the bookmarked page: “The first person through the wall always gets hurt,” said Finn. All right, who was Finn, and what did he know of walls? For a few blessed moments, she sank into the story and was able to recapture the vicarious pleasure of losing herself in a good book.

Then the inevitable wave of sadness crept in. Her mother would never finish reading this very good book, nor the others stacked around the room, waiting to be cracked open by an eager mind. Natalie set the volume aside, overcome by endless ripples of grief and nostalgia. Had her mother been happy, as Natalie had assured Dean she’d been? Had Natalie been part of that happiness?

She wanted to cry some more, but she was worn out from crying. It was late and she needed to sleep.

She got up and slipped into a nightgown from her suitcase, then went to wash her face and brush her teeth. The bathroom was another still life—big porcelain sink, enormous claw-footed tub. There was some dampness on the floor, which concerned her. As did the rusty hinges and rattling windowpanes, buzzing light fixtures, and probably a host of other undiscovered issues. The old building was in constant need of repair.

Not tonight, though.

Soaps and cosmetics littered the countertop, the scents evoking sweet and painful memories. Propped on the tub rack was a dogeared book about dealing with dementia. The pages were steam curled, with highlighted passages. Oh, Mom. Why didn’t you tell me more about Grandy’s condition?

The medicine cabinet contained some surprises. Along with the face creams and lip balms, there were prescription bottles for antianxiety medication and another for a sleep aid. Zero refills remaining.