Nora sets the monitor beside the recorder. Both speakers are silent now. You put the kettle on because doing something ordinary feels better than watching them. Your sister opens the biscuit tin. Inside are a folded letter, a spare cassette, and a spool of red cotton. Your mother used to tie that cotton around your wrists in crowded places. One child at each end. The kitchen doorway darkens. Beyond it, where your hallway should be, a narrow staircase descends toward a yellow light. Nora grips the counter. She tells you there was a staircase like that in your first house. You were six when you left. Your mother told you it had burned down. The kettle boils. The yellow light goes out. Nora's hand is shaking too badly to open the letter. You take the tin from her. Beneath the folded paper, the cassette turns a quarter circle by itself.
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.