The soup in the bowl had cooled, but the Nameless Girl didn’t care—she was terribly hungry, her throat parched and dry—and when she dipped the spoon into the soup, the Nameless Girl saw a cloud of black granules dance about the bowl.

At first she thought that this was pepper, but it was not. It was dry ink, powdery black, that had once spelled out a name—though what the name was, no one quite knew.

Desperate for relief, the Nameless Girl lifted the trembling spoon to her lips, black powder dancing in the oily broth, and she thrust it into her mouth.

The soup was wonderfully delicious, as tasty as anything she’d ever had, familiar but surprising, cool but still bright and flavorful, and she swallowed it down hungrily.

As she withdrew the spoon from her mouth, though, the razor edge of its basin nicked the inside of her right cheek, and Bluma yelped.

Bluma.

The soup traveled down Bluma’s tight throat into Bluma’s cramping stomach.

Tears filled Bluma’s eyes.

She had missed her name.

Quickly, Bluma stirred the soup again, the cloudy color of rust seeping from spoon into bowl, and she lifted a second mouthful to her lips. This time the spoon nicked the inside of her left cheek on its way out, but Bluma could hardly be bothered to notice:

Tears were running from Bluma’s slate-colored eyes down Bluma’s peaked cheekbones. Bluma’s lips crumpled as she gazed into the mirrored back of the spoon before her.

Her face.

Bluma’s own face.

Her heart had wavered as she’d made her way through the gravestone maze outside—would she reclaim herself or give herself away?—but now she could not possibly imagine giving up her face or name again.

And with a start, she wondered what sorts of mistakes she might’ve made if she hadn’t been trained by her bubbe over a lifetime of Friday nights to know the smell of her soup.

Tilting the bowl, she gave it one final stir with the spoon.

Was it her imagination, or had the soup grown a bit warmer?

Bluma had begun to gather up the last spoonful when her attention wavered.

What was that delicious smell?

Near her bubbe’s bowl, another very much like it, but somehow improved—better seasoned, perhaps, with larger chunks of meat, and the bowl itself not simple glazed crockery, but china, decorated with a tasteful geometric pattern.

Now that was a soup.

And it was still piping hot.

Careful not to spill the broth, Bluma grasped the bowl at its very brim and pulled it toward the edge of the table, twirling the spoon by its handle lightly between her fingers.

But at that very moment, she heard a voice speak from the door.

“I wouldn’t,” it said.

Bluma whirled around in surprise, the spoon slipping from her hand to clatter down onto the wooden table.

—