Passing through the Molching streets, only one thought plays through Liesel's head: Everything looks the same but nothing feels it.

Liesel looks for dabs of color from a dying autumn but comes up short. This time of year, Paris is beaming with holiday spirit. The bakeries are lined with Christmas cookies and shops are decorated with ornaments and wreaths. She almost wants to tell the cab driver to take her back to the station, but before she knows it, the driver, a graying man in his early seventies, turns around and looks at her impatiently, his mustache crinkling up into his nostrils.

"We're here, miss."

"I know."

"Well. Are you going to get out?"

"Just a minute. Just a minute."

In front of Liesel sits the gorgeous mansion of the late Herr Hermann and his wife Ilsa. Its beauty unmatched, the years have not touched the house one bit. The big windows, green garden, elegant porch. A testament to the type of care Ilsa gave to the things she loved.

When she knocks, a thin brunette woman with owl eyes opens the door. Wearing all black, she's a spitting image of the Mona Lisa. Anja: Ilsa's daughter. She looks at Liesel blankly.

"I'm Liesel Meminger. Ilsa's foster daughter."

A pang of recognition lights up her face. "Oh. Ja, Yes, come in." She grabbed her bags and ushered her in the door, saying something about the untimely cold weather. "We weren't expecting you to come. How was your train ride?"

"Long. Tiring."

A sad smile paints on her face. "It's been a while since you've been home. Come inside now. Let's have some tea. "

Anja sets a kettle on the stove and opens the cupboard pulling out biscuits. There's a variety of them, vanilla, chocolate caramel, and a hazelnut berry which she arranges neatly on a plate. "It's so good of you to come. Mama has missed you so much."

"I've missed her too. I'm so sorry for your loss. Herr Hermann was always very kind to me. He took me in when I had nowhere else to go."

She reaches out and folds her hand into Liesel's. "I think he liked you better than he liked any of us," she says, laughing.

"Impossible. Our conversations were always only a couple of sentences."

"Two more sentences than ours," Anja says, grinning. "Why don't you head over to the library where Mama is? I'll bring the tea over there when it's ready."

Walking through the hallway and into the library was second nature to Liesel. She felt sixteen again , wandering through the large house during the late hours of the night and finding refuge in books when nightmares haunted her sleep. She recalled a few nights when Ilsa would hear her footsteps and come downstairs as well. Ilsa would make them a hot cup of milk with a pinch of cinnamon and watch as Liesel devoured story after story. They never spoke about the bombings, but Liesel could tell Ilsa knew she relived them almost every night.

Ilsa is sitting still, emulating a statue, staring out the window. When Ilsa senses Liesel coming in, a warm smile breaks on her face.

Liesel walks over and wraps her arms around Ilsa. Ilsa smells of tulips and fresh soap. Except for the extra wrinkles under her eyes and graying hair, she looks the same.

"Eight years is too long to not see my favorite girl," Ilsa says.

"Has it really been that long?"

"Yes. How is your French?"

"Bien."

"That's it? You would think living in Paris for nearly a decade would give you a larger vocabulary!"

They chat for a bit, and Ilsa tells Liesel about Frau Hermann's last days. The shock of the diagnosis a few months ago. His rapid decline. Him dying in a hospital room with family surrounded.

Tears form in Ilsa's eyes. "I miss him a lot. You know once you moved out he would sit in the library and stare at the books."

"Have I told you how sorry I am for leaving?"

"Sweetheart, I knew you had to leave. With everything that happened with that boy, sweet Rudy…what a shame."

It's the first time Liesel has heard his name out loud in years. Oftentimes, she hears it in her head, and she quickly drowns it. When she's strolling through the streets after work and sees a yellow-haired boy, she turns her head to the sky and counts how many birds are out. When she comes across a book about running while taking inventory at the bookstore, she shoves it in, binding first, and mentally takes note of the groceries she had in her pantry. Sometimes when a customer walks in with eyes the same shade of blue as his, she'd dig her nails into the side of her thigh until the image of him fades away.

Ilsa sees the look on my face and abruptly stops talking. Talk was fervent in Molching after what happened with Rudy. The incident, they coined it. Everyone knew what it meant. Did you hear about the incident? with a raised eyebrow and it was understood. They had heard. They expressed their shock. Their confusion. Their sympathies. It was everywhere. The school where Liesel worked. The market. Even in the Hermanns' own home. Ilsa often entertained guests, the ladies of the garden club, and Liesel could hear them through the walls.

"The girl," they would ask, particularly the nosy Gisela Lürmann, over hot tea and biscuits. "How is she doing? You know, after the incident?"

"She is okay," Ilsa would say back. "But we really shouldn't speak about it here."

And as if that was an invitation to switch to a loud whisper, she would say, "such a shame. If something like that happened to my Verlobter, I would leave the country! Ilsa, where are these biscuits from?"

And that was that. An idea planted into Liesel's head. A new country. A fresh new start. New people.

Or at least people who had not heard about the incident.

One week later she was gone. A wet, gloomy day, but wetter goodbyes. And a promise of a job from a friend of Ilsa's cousin in a Parisian bookstore. A room she could rent.

Right then, Anja walks through the door right then holding a platter with three cups of tea. She sets the tray down and picks up a purple ceramic mug and holds up in the air. "To Liesel Meminger. The Book Thief. Welcome Home."