The Staircase Moving In Both Directions

The second floor landing smells of chalk dust and yellow sunlight. There is a drawing tacked to the banister rail, done in bright crayon. It is the front elevation of the house my father used to live in. I walk past the landing. The main staircase below moves, simultaneously rising and falling. The sound is a steady, rhythmic creak, like heavy bones shifting. I notice the drawing. The crayon marks are perfect. From the hall, a deep voice calls my name. It does not sound like a question, but a careful acknowledgement. I stand still, feeling the weight of someone waiting for me to arrive.