“Yes, good idea. I should,” I think out loud.

“I can accompany you part of the way, my dear, but then I’m afraid I have to run a little errand just over the hill there.”

“No, it’s fine. It’s okay. I just . . . do you mind waiting?” I realize what I look like. “I can’t exactly go like this.”

“Of course, dear.” She settles back in the chair and picks up a dusty book from the end table, blowing off a bit of the dust. She reads the title, “A Comprehensive History of the Silk Road.”

“Hmm,” I say, meaning nothing. But inside I am thinking, I have heard this before, too. Where have I heard it?

It’s strange that this very book would be there, now. A book I hadn’t noticed but that I would certainly have noticed, as it falls firmly in the realm of my imagination.

“Fascinating. I always do love hearing the tales of the ancient world. Palmyra. The Assyrians. The Phoenicians and their many trade routes along the Mediterranean.” She squints a little, a gesture of intrigue.

“I do, too. I’m obsessed, actually,” I admit. “One day, I want to travel the Silk Road. Maybe even on the back of a camel. See Palmyra. The ruins of Turpan.”

“Pity it’s all devastated these days. I should like to visit, too, one day,” she confesses, wistful.

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll get to see it,” I assure her.

“Not at my age, dear. I can only imagine it these days, through documentaries and the like. I couldn’t possibly go. Can you imagine me in a war zone?” She laughs it off.

And it is a bit sad, isn’t it? The idea that all these grand treasures, secrets, and mysteries, the cradle of civilization between the Tigris and the Euphrates, is now essentially on fire. A whole world of treasures ablaze. As if we’re setting fire to ourselves.

“One day, when you have children of your own, I hope you look them right in the eye and tell them wars are nothing more than rich men sending poor men to die killing other poor men.” She says this, suddenly wistful, as if she knows quite a bit more about it. More than she’s willing to tell.

But, again, something about her tells me she has seen everything. Perhaps she’s seen the kinds of things you would spend your whole life trying to forget.

I duck out, making my way up the stairs, hurrying to get dressed, not wanting to be rude.

Downstairs I can hear her humming a little song to herself. I don’t recognize the song, or the lyrics, but there is something consoling in it.

A melancholy song, sung to only herself:

“You’ll never know just how much I miss you . . .

You’ll never know just how much I care. . . .”

I stand there on the landing for a minute, not knowing why, wondering who it is Penelope would be singing this song for.