“Retrieving the balance of your father,” said the Angel, and, using the knife’s keen edge, he pried a small blot of hardened wax up from the table and handed it to Yehuda Leib.

“There,” he said. “You wished me to give you your father, and there he is.”

The blob of wax seemed entirely ordinary: pearly white, cool to the touch, its pooled shape strange and accidental.

Yehuda Leib could see the burned end of a spent wick trapped inside the wax, and for a moment he thought about trying to shape it into a tiny new candle, but there was neither enough wax nor enough wick remaining.

The candle was spent.

“Does it not move you?” said the Angel.

Yehuda Leib clenched his jaw. It was only wax.

“I thought not. But all the same it oughtn’t go to waste. Come.”

Now the Angel led Yehuda Leib across the burning floor to the hearthside, where, above the roaring fire, a great pot full of molten wax was hung.

“Here,” said the Angel, and softly, deftly, he used his blade to carve the spent wick out of the hardened wax in Yehuda Leib’s hand. Then, laying aside the knife, he drew forth the small glass bottle once more, uncorked it, and coaxed the fading point of light onto the last of the wick between his fingers.

“There we are,” said the Angel of Death, and, bending low, he let go of the wick, which floated, smoldering, down into the great unconsuming fire in the hearth.

“Until we meet again,” said the Angel of Death to the waning wick.

Yehuda Leib gave a heavy sigh.

“Now you,” said the Angel.

“What?” said Yehuda Leib.

“There are two halves to every living soul,” said the Angel. “The part that goes wandering about the world, it is my task to retrieve. But the part that stays here with us”—the Angel gestured first to the wax in Yehuda Leib’s hand, and then to the ancient pot—“must be returned as well.”

Yehuda Leib gazed through the clear wax to the craggy bottom of the pot.

“Now you,” said the Angel.

“And what happens to it?” said Yehuda Leib.

“I am not the only Messenger to frequent this place,” said the Angel. “Another passes through the door many times each day, bringing fresh-woven wicks to dip into this wax, and when those candles are cool and dry, they are lit from the fire below and released through the window.”

Yehuda Leib peered out the window beside the hearth. With his living eye, he saw a bright blue sky filled with summer sun. With his Death’s Eye, he saw the wide night sky, filled not with stars but with flickering candles.

“Here,” said the Angel of Death. “Now you.” And, rising up on his feet, Yehuda Leib dropped the blob of hardened wax into the pot.

“Until we meet again,” he said, his voice faltering.