“Quiet on set,” the assistant director says. “Action.”

Giggling, the wife runs into the frame, with the husband in close pursuit. She grabs a pillow and hits him with it on the shoulder. He tugs the robe’s sash, slides a hand underneath it, then slides another hand into that gorgeous hair. They tongue-kiss with great enthusiasm until she leads him to bed, where they tumble in a heap of passion. In a minute, Setsuko emerges into the doorway.

“Koroshiteyaru,” she utters softly. There are tracks in her cake foundation.

“Cut!” Wyatt yells. “Not bad for a first take. I’d like it to be slightly less playful and more hesitant. Remember, you’ve recently buried your daughter and are desperate to reconnect. Setsuko, you’re a natural. Do it like that again. Okay, angel?”

“Yes, Daddy,” my spectral girl says, eager to please.

The set is restored to its original state. The husband, on touching his wife in subsequent takes, is timid, almost fearful. They act it out over and over to get the full coverage: the wide shots, medium shots, close-ups, over-the-shoulder shots. When Wyatt calls a break for lunch at noon, the crew bustles with activity, but I swear I see him approach the wife and tuck stray hair behind an ear with a caress trailing to her chin. He’s a director, she’s his leading lady, I remind myself. This kind of passing flirtation happens all the time.

When they wrap, Wyatt remains at the studio to review the dailies. I drive Setsuko home in endless rush-hour traffic. She refuses to break the monotony and won’t return my gaze or even speak to me. She’s still upset about the cat.

“Coco, what does ‘Koroshiteyaru’mean?” I ask in curiosity.

“I will kill you both,” she replies at last.

I wonder how many memories I have left to give my daughter, so I comb through the file I’ve kept of school exercises, drawings, and her diary—the lock of which I picked after we had to say goodbye for a while. In nostalgia, I review the entries of Coco learning how to ride a bike, cooking marshmallows over a fire on our Yosemite camping trip, receiving her first kiss at a pool party. The kiss I restaged with a boy actor matching Setsuko’s adorable confession of her crush, only to discover afterward that second Setsuko had already been kissed behind the soda machines in kindergarten. I suppose there’s bound to be some mismatches. It makes me wish I had devised a test of some kind to determine whether or not Setsuko is who she’s supposed to be. I tell myself that perfection is impossible, but if I try to get things as close as I can for her, she’ll have the best chance of returning to me. I’m sure that on her birthday, I’ll receive a sign—she’ll tell me a secret only the old Setsuko will know, whisper, “I’m back, Mommy,” in my ear, even a long-forgotten gesture of hers would be enough.

Finally, the anticipated day arrives, and I’ve made sure everything is in order. I’ve rewrapped her toys gifted a decade past. There’s a bubble maker on our deck and a pony will be on the beach. Tables are laden with steamed dumplings and mochi. I tell Setsuko she’s not to go out of my sight.