I step in cautiously. This room stands out from the others—it’s simpler, but more luxurious-feeling than the rest of the house, possibly because of its rich colors. The wallpaper is a deep, swirling blue patterned to look like waves, and the gleaming gold bed hosts expensive-looking bedding topped with a small mountain of pillows in an array of blues and sea-glass greens. The deep gray rug is thick and extravagant under my feet, and sunlight glows through the pristine windows. The room even smells good—earthy and floral, with a hint of spice, and when I look up at the exposed beams of the ceiling, I realize why. Bundles of dried flowers and herbs are hanging from the beams, their petals and stems reaching delicately toward the ground.

This is easily the best room in the house.

I flip on the light switch, expecting overhead lights to flood the room, but instead, a single light illuminates a small oil painting hung above the bed.

My body recognizes the image before the rest of me does, and I’m jolted forward, my face only inches from the painting by the time my brain catches up. It’s a painting of a mermaid, and not an ethereal princess mermaid; the right kind of mermaid. Complicated, dark, and a little chaotic. The mermaid is perched on a rock, her dark green fin splayed in front of her. Her hair is long and wild, the ocean painted in intricate gray and blue swirls behind her. The details and style are impeccable, but it’s her serious, pointed gaze that sucks me in. She’s surrounded by confusion and turmoil, but she’s focused on one thing.

What is it?

On a whim, I turn to see where her gaze is pointed, and am startled to see a wooden ladder propped up against the wall leading to a large glass skylight in the ceiling.

My stomach rolls like the mermaid’s ocean. My mom and I were always climbing out on rooftops together to look at stars, and I can’t help but wonder if a mermaid is really directing me to a roof? Obviously, I will be going up there.

“Simon?” I call into the hallway. No answer.

The ladder feels unsteady under my weight, and I move slowly, expecting a crash at any moment. At the top, it takes me a few seconds to figure out how to unlatch the window, and swinging it open is all kinds of clumsy, but when I climb through the opening into the quiet, humid air and see what is waiting for me, I nearly lose my grip. Am I hallucinating, or is this real?