For an age, it seemed, they walked blindly back through the grass, the face of Death watching them closely through the window of its little house.

And it was true that the Angel was angry. But it lingered long in watching them retreat for a different reason.

Because until Yehuda Leib had held the Blade That Severs All Things to its throat, the Angel of Death had not understood. And when it heard itself beg for life, as it had heard voice after voice vainly do in language after language, place after place, moment after moment after moment since the very first death had befallen the world, it began to see:

This was the answer.

This was every answer.

And there they were, beaten, bloodied, exhausted: two from Tupik who knew what would have to happen one day and together chose to keep going anyway.

And so the Angel watched through its window in anger, to be sure. But with a sort of fondness, as well.

Because it is a difficult thing to walk backward through the tall grass for the span of a year, even when one is at one’s strongest. Time after time, the Angel saw them reach out to brace one another, to catch a fall or bolster flagging strength.

They were two red stitches looped together in the endless scarf of living.

And the Angel would miss them—miss them as friend misses friend, just as the Rebbe had taught.

Until they met again.

—

Onward and onward.

Backward and back.

Step after step after step after step.

Time ceased to have any meaning. Even the slowly growing distance between themselves and the little house on the horizon meant nothing.

All that existed was the walk: backward, fumbling, blind.

Step after step after step after step.

They mustn’t turn, not even for a moment.

Step after step after step after step.

Sun-warmed earth, long, soft grass beneath their bare feet.

Step after step after step after step.

At a certain point, they began to see oddities, artifacts, remnants half buried on either side:

A bullet-riddled breastplate.

A bloodied white shift.

A pair of cracked spectacles.

Onward and outward.

Backward and back.

Soon the debris grew thicker: bleached skeletons, waterlogged books, ruins of stone.

A bearded skull.

A torn prayer shawl.

Onward and outward.

Backward and back.

Day after day.

Week after week.

Step after step after step after step.

The window grew smaller and smaller in their gaze, day after day, week after week, the Dark One watching as they retreated.

And then, all of a sudden, in the teary wake of a blink, the Angel was gone from its tiny window in the distance.

Later, Yehuda Leib would find himself sure that he had known then, but the truth was that there was only the walk—step after step after step after step.

Only the walk.