The smile lines at the corners of his eyes gave a little twitch.

But they did not reawaken. The moment passed, and, just as if she were nothing and no one, his eyes slid on.

The Nameless Girl choked back a sob.

What, who had she become? Was she even his daughter anymore?

Turning, the Nameless Girl began to mount the stairs, the final amen of the Kaddish rising up behind her. Tucked against the wall, above the linens drawn up neatly, was her bed—but not hers, somehow. Not anymore.

Beyond, in the inner bedroom, she could see her mother sitting on the edge of her own bed in the flickering candlelight, still, staring, deep in thought. She, too, seemed old, the gray in her hair standing boldly forth.

Beside her, Perla Kraindl’s mother sat, rubbing gentle circles into her back.

“Your daughter will come back,” said Mrs. Kraindl. “You’ll see.”

But when Bluma’s mother spoke, her voice was heavy and flat. “No,” she said. “No. I’ve lost her. I can feel it.”

Tears stung the Nameless Girl’s cloudy eyes. She wanted to run into the room, to throw herself into her mother’s arms.

But, with a lurch, she thought of the blank indifference in her father’s eyes.

It would do no good.

Perhaps her mother was right.

Careful not to make enough noise to attract her attention, the Nameless Girl climbed the final flight of stairs to her bubbe’s empty bedroom.

Someone had cleaned up. The stones that had fallen from the chimney were stacked neatly in the corner, the dusty mortar swept away. All her bubbe’s possessions had been packed up and removed. Only the bare furniture remained, and that, it seemed, grudgingly.

Through the falling snow, the Nameless Girl could see the white tigress pacing back and forth below, weaving impatiently among the stones in the graveyard.

The Nameless Girl let out a heavy sigh, and suddenly, something beside her moved.

She jumped, backing into the corner, arms up, ready to be attacked, and a small gray cat leapt lightly from the rafters down onto the bed frame.

Her bubbe’s cat.

It stared at her intently for a long moment.

Slowly, quietly, the Nameless Girl allowed herself to breathe once more.

She knew this cat. She was not in danger.

Was she?

Warily, the Nameless Girl backed away, the cat’s small, steady eyes following her as she went.

She had just turned to climb down the narrow stairs when a voice spoke out behind her.

“Wait,” said the voice.

In the blinking of an eye, an old gray lady was sitting atop her bubbe’s bed frame.

The Nameless Girl had never seen her before—of that she was sure—but still, somehow, she thought she recognized the features of her wrinkled face, the rumpled frown lines on either side of her lips, deep and sure.

Who was this?

—