I do hear heavy shuffling behind the splintered wooden front door, and every one of my muscles stiffens. Some part of my brain imagines a burly man with an ax opening the door, picking his teeth. I steel myself so Tai, clinging to my arm, won’t panic. A metal panel under the knocker slides open with a rusty clank, and—

The wrinkled face of a woman appears, squinting through the opening.

And I feel a cool rush of steadying relief.

“We’re closed,” she says, watching us with the cagey apprehension of someone who rarely welcomes guests.

“We’ve come a long way to see your figurines,” I manage to say, as Tai grips my hand in hers, the fear still glinting at me from the whites of her eyes. “We would be so obliged if you would show them to us.”

Her eyes pucker. “Have you brought money?”

I hesitate. “Yes.” I hope it’s the right answer.

The woman runs her hand over her scraggly bun and pauses, wrestling with whether to actually follow through as a shop owner and allow strangers into her domain. I feel a pang of sympathy. It feels obvious, in this moment, that she’s no monster: She’s agoraphobic and lonely, like Dad probably was.

The lock clicks for thirty seconds, and when the door hitches open, the singular scent of cat urine assaults me. The woman looks like she’s a hundred years old, shriveled to a husk. Her clothing is moth-eaten floral, her slippers stained. She caresses her knotted hands—their fingernails overlong and yellowed—as if they pain her, and she wheezes, her shallow breath the kind that makes me feel like I’m suffocating. Behind her is a small, dark entryway with a black curtain concealing the inside of the house.

“Remove your shoes,” she croaks, pointing at crusty shearling visitors’ slippers to the right of the entryway. I turn back to Tai, who gapes at me, mouthing, No fucking way. But the woman stands, unmoving like a stump in front of the black curtain, until we obey.

“I’m not wearing socks,” Tai pleads, her face pale. “I don’t want to do this again after Daria’s. I had to shower for ten hours.”

“Tai, come on,” I whisper back.

“I hate you,” she spits, ripping off her shoes. But I know we both can’t resist the pull of this house’s mystery—of the clues to Mama it might hold in its depths.

When we push through the curtain, I can only gasp.

Surrounding us are armies of thousands of tiny wooden figures, lit by candles nestled inside glass jars. These whittled works of art line every surface, as well as countless shelves, jutting from the walls. Foxes, squirrels, mice, every woodland creature imaginable. None of them painted, all of them still featuring the veins and grooves of their natural beige wood. Intricately carved by a patient hand.