The Upper Floor Has No Echo

The smell of brine and stale varnish clings to the air. I trace the edge of the pine molding with my thumb; it is cool, the temperature of metal. Across the hall, the window glows with late autumn sun, though the dust on the sill shows green-leafed moss. I unfold the paper map. It is folded into the precise shape of a kingfisher. My fingers smooth the creases, revealing the county lines and the marked train route from 1931. There, on the mahogany desk, sits a cedar box I do not own. It contains the key. I know I left the key in the kitchen. My chest carries the weight of that certainty. I lift my gaze toward the hall end, where the sheetrock is warped and the floorboards list names where hours should be. The map feels wrong in my palm.