On the other side of the street, a kit of pigeons pecked near the base of a trashcan. She opened her purse, tossed the remains of an oatmeal cookie she’d tucked away. They fluttered their wings, attacked the bounty. She watched them until the last crumb disappeared, boarded the next trolley home.

Her keys jostled in the doorknob to her building. She kicked the door open, leaned heavily against the banister, trudged up the long, narrow staircase to the second floor. She’d fallen in love with the eaves of her apartment, the high, slanted ceiling, her stunning view of the Rijksmuseum, its majestic red façade, its towers. It had reminded her of another view—the one of Agra Fort from the western side of the Taj Mahal, the place where she first spoke to Amir.

The apartment had been a foolish choice for a home. She’d not counted on how quickly her joints would deteriorate in her eighties, how difficult climbing steps would become. Her chest heaved as she mounted each landing.

The waning sunlight washed her living room in an orange glow. Her money plants stretched their stems along the windowsills of the dormers. She kicked off her shoes, sunk her toes within the cool threads of her shag rug, collapsed into the cushions of her sofa. She loved her apartment in Amsterdam. It felt like the closest thing to a home since her parents’ home in Delhi.

Of course, she loved London too. But Nora and John’s premature deaths ruined that city for her. It was as if the string of tragedies that began in Delhi had followed her across the Himalayas, the former Persian Empire, the Mediterranean Sea, the European continent, and the English Channel. Gertrude had eased this pain some, had been a lifeline for both her and Vijay. If Deepa had one regret (though certainly, there were too many to list) it was ending her friendship with Gertrude and taking her son away from her. He had needed her. They both did.

Shan and Deepa had spoken several times since she returned to the United States. Her granddaughter was persistent and stubborn, and reminded Deepa of herself. She wouldn’t wait for Deepa to return her voice mail messages. She kept calling, day after day, until she eventually caught Deepa at home. Now when more than a few days passed without hearing from her, Deepa found herself on edge. She worried about her. She missed her.

The phone rang. She pulled it out of her purse.

“Deepa? It’s me,” her granddaughter said. “You’re not going to believe this. I’m calling you from Lahore.”

“Lahore?” Deepa said. “You’re in Pakistan?”

“I have some amazing news. Are you sitting down?”

Deepa didn’t know what sitting down had to do with anything. “Yes, what is it?”