The letter is addressed to both of you. Your mother began it three times. Each beginning apologizes for something different. Finally she describes your sixth birthday. The lights went out. You were angry because Nora had blown out your candles. Your mother couldn't stop laughing when you demanded another cake. You remember it. The ridiculous unfairness. Her floury hand on your head. Below that memory, her handwriting changes. It knows the things we repeat. It can't follow a memory we haven't given it. If you find the stairs, ask each other something new. Keep talking to the person beside you. Nora reads over your shoulder. She tells you she didn't blow out the candles. You sneezed, and she took the blame because you were already crying. It is such an ordinary secret. For a moment, you can see the cake between you. Down the impossible staircase, someone strikes a match.
Someone is breathing beside you. You live alone. Your estranged sister knows why it sounds like your mother.
Listen closely. Choose carefully. Carry the consequences.
Every path leaves a different story.