With time, the quiet spinning of questions begets other questions. Is there anyone left to answer them? And so you leave a plate of food offerings: sections of wild orange, bean threads in edible parchment; meat or fish threaded away from bone. All these tell of how sometimes, mid-dream, you're convinced you've forgotten your own name—Then you look into the hallway mirror and the gaze that meets your own is unswerving. Whatever you may have lost, the ghosts of your kin always come back to whisper what you need.