And every so often, when the wind through the maples sounded exactly like the sound of a child laughing, Meera would stop what she was doing, place her hand over her heart, and whisper a name she had learned in the house: Eli. Whether they ever found him again, or whether he was simply the echo of a name that refused to be gone, she could not say. But in a small way she understood that remembering is a kind of keeping, and keeping is a kind of love.
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Once, on a mild autumn afternoon, Meera stood in the doorway and watched sunlight make lace where the dust motes had once been. Aarav, now taller with his knees knocking in new ways, kicked a ball into the garden and called for her to come help. She smiled and took up the ball and thought about the ledger and the boy and the way a house keeps account. And every so often, when the wind through
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