“When you’re ready,” she says softly. “It took me seven tries. But here I am.”

No one recognizes her. That’s the first miracle. The second is that she’s still alive.

She pulls the collar of her coat tighter—not leather anymore, but sensible navy wool—and watches the teenagers stumble out of the U-Bahn. Pale. Hollow-eyed. Chasing the same ghost she chased fifty years ago. The ghost has a new name now—Fentanyl, Crystal, whatever blue pill burns through the foil—but the dance is the same.