Behind the mirror, four short scratches cross the wooden frame. A fifth begins below them, fresh enough to expose pale wood. Your fingers come away dusty. Nothing is wet. Nothing has broken. You remember making marks like these as a child, though you cannot remember where. On the hallway table sits yesterday's box from your mother's house. Inside: a biscuit tin, a little tape recorder, and the scarf you meant to give Nora. You fell asleep listening to a recording of the old kitchen. The recorder clicks, although its switch is off. Your mother's voice asks whether you've locked the back door. You live on the fourth floor. There is no back door. Three knocks sound behind you. Through the apartment peephole, Nora stands clutching a baby monitor. She looks older than she did eight months ago. She looks afraid of you.
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.