She thought she remembered odd things—frost, cold metal on her skin, a strange, lugubrious reflection—but her mind was not at all calm, and by now she had begun to wonder if she hadn’t been imagining things.

Had the old lady climbing the stairs just been her bubbe?

What had she really heard through the bedroom door?

Had she only been dreaming?

Perhaps it was just an ordinary spoon.

Downstairs, the front door ushered in a new crop of guests, and Bluma heard hushed greetings ripple through her front room.

Quietly, she lowered herself to her hands and knees and peeked below the bed.

There it was.

It had frozen against the wall.

Careful not to allow herself to slide all the way beneath, Bluma reached deep under the bed and grasped the frigid spoon, tugging hard, once, twice, before it came up in her hand.

She had not been imagining things.

In fact, the spoon was odder than she remembered, for while her reflection was indeed delayed in the spoon’s surface, the setting it depicted was not delayed at all: instead of persisting in showing the dim surroundings beneath the bed, the reflection in the spoon now showed the larger second floor exactly as it was—except that Bluma had not yet arrived.

Shortly, though, in the spoon’s reflection, she came padding up the stairs—weary, dour, sad.

No wonder people were looking at her with such pity.

Bluma wanted to see herself better, and, bunching up the hem of her skirt, she began to polish the frost from the spoon.

With a sharp gasp, she dropped it to the floor. Instinctively, she stuck her thumb into her mouth.

Her thumb. She had cut the pad of her thumb.

Was the spoon…sharp?

It was. The rim of its basin had been honed to a razor’s edge, which both confused and disquieted her. All she could imagine was a big mouthful of soup and a long gash along the inside of either cheek.

Who on earth would want a sharp spoon?

But as she bent to retrieve it, something else—something stranger—caught her eye.

The spoon had landed facing up. A small droplet of her blood was creeping down the inverted slope, and in the glossy red trail it left behind, a slice of someone’s face was reflected.

And it was not hers.

Bluma lifted the spoon, waiting for her reflection to arrive, and the blood ran and spread, covering more and more of the basin.

Gradually, the face in the blood began to clarify.

It was her bubbe. Bluma was sure of it.

And as if on cue, Bluma’s own face came swimming into focus, perfectly framing Dvorah Leah’s: two different faces, united by a common reflection. Or, rather, one death divided between two people.

“Bluma!”

Feygush’s voice came echoing up the stairs, and her footsteps followed close behind.