I keep my eyes on the cocoon in front of me, scared that any moment the Memory Thief might come hurtling out at me, or set her moths on me. But, though the light continues to flicker in the one window, all stays still and quiet.

There’s a kind of landing at the end of the bridge, spun tightly of cocoon silk. At first I think it might not hold me, but testing one foot on it, I see it’s incredibly strong. I climb onto it, and look back at the canyon with relief. Far on the other side, so far away that he looks small now, Ebb lifts his hand in a wave. I wave back.

I pull my flashlight from around my neck and turn it on.

There are three silken stairs that lead to a hole in the cocoon that serves as the entrance.

I climb the stairs slowly, take one last look back across the canyon at Ebb, and enter.

Inside, the cocoon doesn’t look like a cocoon at all, but like the interior of an old house frozen in time. There’s a curving staircase with a carved railing that climbs to the floors above. There’s a parlor and a dining room table, lit only by the flickering flames of a corner fireplace, black-and-white photos of random people from different eras on its mantel. There’s a record player in the corner playing some old jazz number with no words. Everything—the photos, the mantel, the record player, the dining room table and chairs—is covered in cobwebs.

As I stand there taking it in, the song comes to an end and the record begins to crackle and squeak, ready to be turned over. And then I hear something else.

The sound is faint at first, but unmistakable the longer I stand there in silence. It’s a creak, creak, creak, creak coming from the floor above me.

I clutch my flashlight and point it at the ceiling, where Little One appears, fluttering in the rafters. She flies down near me and perches on one of the cobwebbed dining room chairs, pecking at her feet where the cobwebs stick to her, perturbed. Even she looks afraid, shaking the sticky cobwebs off her beak.

I point her toward the stairs, and she flies to the bottom one, flutters above it.

Together, we make our way up.

Somewhere above, the creaking stops.

At the top I find a hallway that stretches down past a long series of rooms.

I make my way past each of them, peering inside—each full of old, homey things: toys and dressers and beds and calico curtains, web-covered, dusty. The windows—which are really just holes with no glass—are enclosed by silken strands so that it all feels shut in and claustrophobic.