And this might’ve been the end of things.

But as the wax began to melt, the fire beneath the pot surged, sending a gout of light up beneath the brim of the Angel’s wide black hat.

And for the first time, Yehuda Leib saw his face.

—

“Come,” said the Angel to Bluma. “I will show you.” And, navigating swiftly through the steaming bowls on the floor, she made her way to the pot above the fire. “If you would hand me your bubbe’s bowl?”

With care, Bluma bore the cooled bowl of soup across the room to the Angel by the fire.

“Here,” said Bluma.

With practiced reverence, the Angel took the bowl from her hand and emptied its contents into the pot. Then she lifted her spoon in her hand—where had that come from?—and ran its razor edge along the inside of the bowl, scraping every last bit of the soup from the bowl. Finally, she plunged the spoon into the pot and gave it a stiff stir.

“Until we meet again,” said the Angel, and she added the now-empty bowl to the stack nearby.

“Goodbye, Bubbe,” said Bluma. “Your mother says she’s sorry.”

Now the Angel withdrew the spoon and laid it down beside her. The Fire flared with warmth.

And it was in this light that Bluma saw again the sight that had sent her fleeing in the first place:

The face of Death.

It was her own, of course—lined and wrinkled, her hair turned to gossamer, but there was no mistaking the slate-gray eyes, the peaked cheekbones.

The face was Bluma’s.

“Why?” said Bluma. “Why must you look like that?”

Death frowned, light and tight. “I might ask you the same question. For as much as it frightens each of you to see my face, it grieves me to see each of yours.”

Staring into the swirling pot of soup, Bluma realized: Because the Messenger comes for each of us in turn. Because, if by nothing else, we are bound together by her visit.

And in this way, it is a kindness. In this way, the Messenger’s terrible face is a reminder that none of us is alone.

“Thank you,” said Bluma softly.

But to understand this requires the knowledge that Death’s face shifts and changes.

To understand this requires the ability to look past our own deathly visage.

And this is not an ability that all possess.

—

In the flaring of the fire, Yehuda Leib saw:

The face of Death was his.

With a surge of fear and resentment, he understood. It is not your time, the Angel had said, but he ought to have said yet.

This Death was his, and as long as it was allowed to survive, Yehuda Leib was in danger.

Heart hot with pain, Yehuda Leib seized the Angel’s knife and cut as hard as he could toward Death’s throat.