The Extra Step

I counted them for the first time on the night of a blackout, climbing with my phone for a torch: thirteen steps. The next morning, hurrying down, I got twelve. I assumed I'd miscounted.

I've counted them ever since. Going up, thirteen. Going down, twelve. I've checked in a hurry and at leisure, barefoot and in boots, slow as a surveyor. The staircase in my building has a step that only exists on the way up.

I mentioned it to the man on the second floor, who works in construction. He gave a thin little laugh and, already closing his door: 'If I were you, I wouldn't stop on it.'

Last night I came home late and I stopped. On the last one, the extra one. It was slightly wider than the others, like a landing having second thoughts. From there, the light in the hallway belonged to another hour, yellower, the light of the bulbs in my grandparents' house. It smelled, very faintly, of Sunday afternoon.

Nothing happened. I went down one step and it was Tuesday again.

Now I climb slowly. Not out of fear: in case one day the extra step decides where it leads.