Soon I’m facing the staircase again. I breathe in the bird’s smoky scent, and I’m reminded of Mum. Every so often she would pull out this wooden pot shaped like a bird, and light tiny pieces of coal in its open beak. She called it bakhoor, and explained to me that her mum did the same when she was young to cleanse the room of old smells. But I know Mum did it mostly when she was stressed, as if she wanted to smoke away the bad feelings too.

She would walk round and round the house, and, after that, her flat – the smoke trailing behind her like a ghost.

Today I follow the smoke up the winding staircase, bypassing the living room on the first floor, where I first met Aminah, Zaina and Mama. I peek through some of the doors, which lead to bathrooms and bedrooms, but something tells me they’re not where I’m supposed to be going, because the smoke keeps flying up.

At the very top of the house the smoke stops in front of a closed door.

I realize the gentle drumming of the house is louder here, like this is where its heart lies.

I wrap my fingers round the cool metal of the doorknob. I twist, and twist, but it doesn’t budge. I frown and try again.

Odd. Why is this door locked?

There’s a large crack in it, and the wood has splintered in places, like the walls that are crumbling in the kitchen and the photos that hang faded on the walls. I peer through the crack and find a world of bright blue and purple. There’s a great big wardrobe, clothes spilling out of it, at one end, and an old-school television at the other. That’s when I realize it’s another bedroom.

At the centre of the room is a small wooden bed. And sleeping in the bed is a woman. It takes me a few seconds to realize it’s Mum. I can tell by her wild hair. But it’s not thirteen-year-old Aminah this time, it’s actual grown-up Mum.

My heart flips and twirls and dances like a leaf in the wind. I gasp and step back, leaning against the banister to hold myself up.

The smoke twirls me round, spinning me away from the door, before trailing down the stairs.

I watch it go for a moment, before turning back and peering through the door again. As I put my hands up to the door the drumming feels louder, more desperate, like it’s willing me to go inside. Or is it warning me?

Without realizing it I call for her. ‘Mum?’ I say. ‘Mum, wake up!’

But she doesn’t move.

I try the door again, but it doesn’t budge.