![]() ![]() “Nothing different from what I usually find. “Yesterday, I hiked all day and tried the last door only.” You could try every door until you get tired.” He pulls a hair out of his short beard. ![]() “You’ll want to have a strategy.” He points to a beige door. The skein of thread is now in her satchel, wound tight, along with a pair of scraggly mittens and a kitchen device that is only good for coring apples, this detritus of her life that she isn’t even sure how she acquired. The thread led her to this room, where she slept, pulled into quiet unconsciousness, pulled back by footsteps in the hall. The night before, she came upon a tangle of threads in the entrance and followed the one that smelled like cinnamon, the scent like a tangible fragment of her childhood, the kitchen with the cracked red phone, her mother’s famous cinnamon cookies. “Which room are you looking for?” he asks.Īnna shrugs. One stops to examine her room, a man with a trim beard and thick glasses. In the morning, searchers glide by, crowding through the hallway, meshing into each other and apart again. She sleeps, dreamless, hearing the ocean trembling against the shore. Dusk seeps in through windows thick with salt lines. Outside, the wrens muck about in shallow water. Anna is grateful to lie on the bed in the cool house where there are no expectations, no labyrinthine thoughts to swallow her in the night.
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