“Only because it was falling off the table,” Maya clarified.

“And?”

“She was beautiful.”

Arthur looked away, his eyes pained. “Esther,” he said after a long pause. “My daughter’s name was Esther. She was four years old.”

The words seemed to scrape his throat raw. Maya lowered the tray, her own heart aching for him. “She had your eyes.”

Arthur’s face tightened in pain. For a second, she thought he might order her out of the house. Instead, he asked if she believed in ghosts. Maya thought of her grandmother’s oxygen machine in the dark, of memories that sit beside you in empty rooms, of grief that touches your shoulder when no one is there.