There was no sign of water damage on the sill or floor, except for a few drops from that afternoon. Her parents must have left it open recently to air out the room, then either forgotten about it…or passed before they had a chance to close it again.

A hasp lock had been screwed into the frames where they met. The metal was old, bleeding rust onto the wood. An open padlock hung from the left-hand side, with its key still inside. Clearly, the window was intended to be locked at night.

I don’t understand. Why would you need such a heavy lock for a window?

She frowned as she leaned closer to the glass, straining to see over the porch beneath.

And why on the second floor?

Slowly, she turned back to face the room. It was sparsely furnished, suggesting an unused guest room. Another of the bronze service bells hung near the door.

The single bed against the blue wall was covered with a flowery quilt. The bed was adult size, but the quilt’s colors made her think it had been intended for a child instead.

Margot gently touched the material. It was slightly dusty but not enough to say it had sat untouched for years. It felt more like a bed that was refreshed every six months or so in case it was ever needed.

A slow, sticky premonition grew in her stomach, making her queasy. Margot approached the double-door wardrobe inset in the opposite wall. Ideas of bright dresses and muddy child-size overalls danced behind her eyes, but when she dragged the doors open, the racks were empty. The only things inside were a cluster of mothballs forgotten at the wardrobe’s back and two dozen wire hangers, jangling against one another at the sudden intrusion.

Margot slumped, resting her head on the door’s cool edge as she stared at the barren wardrobe. A floor-length mirror had been attached to the back side of the door. It was milky and faintly tarnished, much like the one in her parents’ bedroom, and Margot refused to make eye contact with it.

A small, white shape peeked out from between the mothballs. She crouched to reach for it, the wire hangers snagging at the flyaway strands of her hair as she plucked a small, folded piece of paper out from the back corner.

The scrap was small enough to be swallowed inside her palm if she made a fist. Margot unraveled the painstakingly folded sheet. Inside were sketches: the same shape over and over again. A butterfly, a smile on its misshapen head. Endless, uncertain patterns swirled through its wings, not quite perfectly mirrored.

“Ha.”

Her voice felt foreign in her own ears. Margot walked backward until she hit the end of the bed, then sat on it, the paper cradled in her hands.