For one second, an avalanche of questions: What would Ahrele do? Where would he go? Could he ever go back to the way things were? And from there?
He shuts the door and takes the three flights of stairs down to the street, past the houses of Batei Ungarin, up, toiling up, through Geula.
“Not everything is, you know,” he calls back to the street of dirty-white stone.
He shouldn’t have been home. He shouldn’t have been there when Ruchelle fell, that old chair leg breaking clean in half beneath her. He should’ve had his own home by now, his own set of chairs.
Past Malchus Wachsberger and H Bagel and Hayad Hashni’ah Furniture.
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