He hesitated, then followed my request.

Nina remained on the porch, near enough that I could see her through the glass.

The woman called herself Clara, but names alone meant nothing.

I asked about the house where I grew up, about a chipped blue bowl she had used for cherries, about the lullaby she sang when storms kept me awake.

She answered without hesitation.

Then I asked why she had let me attend a funeral if she was alive.

Her mouth tightened.