“Roll the wheels,” I whisper. “It’ll make the world calmer.” Through the rough jostling of our berth, the lulling rhythm from her thumb—forward, back, forward, back—soothes her enough to doze back off.

On smoother days, among the passengers enjoying the fresh, salty breeze of the upper deck—the majority strolling, smoking, leaning on rails—I notice a smattering of black armbands on upper sleeves. I view the dressing differently now: not simply a declaration of mourning but a symbol of connection for the many who have lost so much. A wordless assurance that we’re not alone.

***

Though the ocean voyage is blessedly uneventful, our subsequent train rides bring relief in comparison, along with eagerness over our destination.

Disembarking on the platform in Amesboro, I spot them immediately. My heart warms even more than I expected. The Jansens’ searching gazes snag on me, and their morphing from anticipation to frozen shock indicates they recognize Evelien at my side. Her uncanny resemblance to Thea, particularly in person, has to be unnerving.

I guide Evelien over. “Evie, say hello to your grandparents.”

She sidles closer to my leg as Mrs. Jansen just stares.

Slowly removing his hat, Mr. Jansen lowers onto a knee before Evelien. “It is very lovely to meet you. I am…your opa. Your grandpapa.” His tone is slightly awkward, though his eyes shimmer with emotion. “And this is your oma.” He gestures to his wife.

“Come.” Her voice borders on gruff. “We go home for food.”

The abruptness is a tad startling, even from her. I pause from following, only to gather our belongings with Mr. Jansen, and hope this wasn’t a mistake.

***

Waves of memories rush over me as I enter the house, intensified by the familiar scent of rye bread. I proceed inside. The furnishings, all unchanged, feel comfortable yet slightly foreign.

Evelien and I settle into my old room, where we’ll continue to share a bed. To help her adjust to our surroundings, I tell her, “Before I lived here, this bedroom belonged to your mother.”

As she studies the space in wonder, thoughts of my last night here, spent with Arie, unleash a mix of longing and gratitude and sorrow.

I nudge them away and focus on the family.

Unfortunately, their interactions neglect to improve as the day plays out: Mr. Jansen is stiffly affable, Evelien shy and wary, Mrs. Jansen stoic and watchful.

The second day brings more of the same.

After supper that evening, another meal strained by the unspoken, I perch on the bottom corner of my bed and, as usual, brush out Evelien’s damp tangles from her bath. Shifting on her bare feet, she fiddles with the sleeve of her nightgown. When she turns to the doorway, I find Mrs. Jansen there in her housedress, her apron hung up for the night.