Three steps beyond the doorway, Kali remembered burying a wife she had never had.
Her name had been Anet. She had worn her hair short because longer strands caught in her loom, and when she laughed with her mouth full, she covered it with the back of her wrist.
Kali remembered the weight of the first shovelful of earth. For one dreadful moment, she missed that woman so terribly that she wanted to turn around and look for her.
An old man passed through her shoulder. He went on walking, and the grief went with him.
Kali stood still. She could remember what Anet had looked like, but already it felt rather presumptuous to think of her by her first name.
A pale expanse stretched ahead, crowded with people traveling in every direction. Some walked as though they still had ground beneath them. Others drifted, their feet trailing at odd angles.
