The staircase does not fit inside your apartment. You can see beneath its banister into a room with your mother's yellow wallpaper. The wallpaper was stripped away before you learned to read. Nora leans down and touches the first step. Her fingertips leave four clean marks in the dust. Now you remember scratching the back of a mirror while she counted. A hiding game. Your mother calling from a room that had been boarded shut. Nora says your name. You have been leaning toward the stairs without noticing. She pulls you back by the sleeve. The red cotton lies across the kitchen table. A child's precaution, absurdly thin against what waits below. You could tie your wrists together. You could also keep your hands free and hold each other. From the yellow room, your mother's voice says Nora has never let you make your own decisions.
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.