One long stave of wax had dripped down its side, trailing along through the gutter of the table’s grain, and if he had cared to follow it, Yehuda Leib would’ve found that it met up after some ways with the wax trail of another, similar candle not far off: a candle that seemed impossible to describe.

But he was far too taken with his own candle to look anywhere else. He found it fascinating, irresistibly compelling, and he itched to feel its smooth wax against his fingers.

But a voice spoke from the door as he reached out his hand:

“I wouldn’t.”

—

With the cold spoon in her hand, the Nameless Girl pushed her way into the House of Death.

This helped to determine what she found there.

It was a small hut, simple, nearly bare: a fire in the hearth, an old wooden table, a single worn chair. The floor was made of earth, packed down by years and years of crossing feet. In the corner, an ancient broom had gnarled, warped to fit the pattern of the two grasping hands that had held it day after day.

Barely, though, had the Nameless Girl come through the door when she shut her eyes and drew a deep breath in through her nose.

What an aroma!

Every surface—table, mantel, chair, and floor—was crowded thick with bowls of chicken soup. Each bowl was different: earthenware, lacquered wood, polished metal, bone china. Even the soup within each bowl was different: some were clear yellow broths dancing with globules of fat; some were carcass soups, cloudy and rich. Some had chunks of meat or vegetables—carrots, potatoes, onions—some had matzo balls, some had noodles. Gouts of steam rose from certain bowls, and some had layers of fat that had separated and solidified on their surfaces.

The Nameless Girl’s mouth began to water. She could not say how long it had been since she’d taken anything to eat, but whatever the time, it had been far too long.

Slowly, careful not to disturb any of the bowls on the floor, the Nameless Girl tiptoed her way into the hut.

Hung above the fire in the hearth was a large pot. Inside, she could hear a roiling, bubbling boil, and nearby, just outside the radius of the fire’s blazing heat, she could see a stack of upturned empty bowls sitting in wait—though whether they had been emptied or were waiting to be filled, she could not say.

She had just begun to reach out her hand for one of the empty bowls when something caught her notice.

She knew that smell.

And, turning, she found, laid on the seat of Death’s chair, a bowl of soup that she might’ve encountered on any Friday night of her life.

This was it, without question: her bubbe’s chicken soup.

There was no use resisting.