The Window Shows Autumn

The upstairs hallway is tiled with green checkerboard squares. A paper map, folded into the shape of a sparrow, rests on the banister. It feels warm, the warmth of pressed bone. From the tall window at the end of the hall, the outside is bright green grass and heavy, yellow pollen. It is early October. I am here, and I do not have a name today, and the empty space where my name should be on the key hook presses a weight against my neck. I reach out and smooth the wings of the map. The sparrow makes no sound, but the light coming through the glass moves across the floorboards, casting the shadows of a deep winter sky.