Clothes-Rope Invitation

I don't know how long I freeze on the spot. By the time I blink, the small figure has already disappeared from my eyesight. They are either hopping down the nearby rooftop or going down the stairs of the fortress. The answer is right there all along. I turn around and jump down the spiral stairs, clearing a few blocks at once, feeling completely weightless. I go straight to the main church entrance this time, as I know nothing is watching me up there.

At the three-way crossing, I can either go back to the route I came from, but the straight path ahead is the shortcut and the closest to where the figure could be. I dart forward without looking around. Streetlights are flickering on and off on the sunlit street, as if trying to signal me where to go. I don't need them to. I see the electric pole in the corner of another three-way intersection—left, that is—and in just a few steps, I'm back at the fortress.

I try to unlock the metal entrance door, but it won't budge. The peeling yellow paint stares back mockingly at me. I reach into my pants pocket; no key either. I can't just jump up to the floor the way I jumped down earlier. As I groan in frustration, I notice a white rope dangling to the side. Not a polyester one, but the kind made by tying clothes tightly together. I look up and see that the makeshift rope leads all the way to the top floor. An invitation. A test. It doesn't matter. I need to get inside.

So I grab the clothes and pull myself up. It is surprisingly sturdy despite the flimsy material. The curtain on each floor is closed, so I can't take a peek inside. I remember opening all of them at the dinosaur parade event. The house must have reset itself.

Eventually, I reach the balcony of the top floor. Climbing up is much harder than jumping down. I take a glance at the house across the street before walking toward the door to the small room. It is unlocked. The moment I open the door; I am greeted by the illusion of cool air. The air conditioner makes a loud whirring noise, then stops abruptly. Hanging near the room's ceiling is a glass altar with three sticks of incense in a central pot, the smoke whirling in the air. There are also a flower vase and a fruit plate. Yet I can't smell anything out of them: no floral scent, no burning ash. I am tempted to grab one orange but resist the urge. There is not much else in this room, so I close the door carefully. Better save that phantom cool air.

As I expected, the glass door to the smaller balcony is also unlocked. I push the handle down and step outside; the breeze here looks visually warmer than the one inside, though my skin still registers nothing. The sky window is opened again. It must be the work of that small figure earlier. I don't bother closing it this time. I do take a peek through it, though. My eyes follow the rope that leads down to the ground floor.

Nothing. No pulling. No twisting. Just pure silence.

Guess I have to go down to find out. I step down the marble stairs, the surface smooth but completely devoid of temperature. My hand touches the railing of peeling yellow paint, my head peeking through the gaps. Still nothing. There is no rush. So I sit down on a big step in the middle of the stairs, admiring the rainbow reflection cast from the thick glass window. It lands softly in the hallway on the second floor.

Reluctantly, I follow the rainbow and head back to that room. I want to open all the curtains again.

The moment I step into the second-floor hallway, the rainbow disappears. The light streaming from the thick glass window—and the sky window up top—snuffs out instantly. I quickly walk inside the main room and lock the door behind me. I need more time to adjust to this sudden change.

I pull back all the curtains in the room, and just as I suspected, it is the dead of night outside now. The balcony is empty. No Pterodactyl tapping politely on the glass this time. I let out a sigh and slide the balcony windows and doors wide open, stepping out into the dark. The light from the third floor across the street is still on, acting as a lone lighthouse in the pitch-black street. The streetlights are on, but unreliable, flickering on and off in an erratic rhythm.

A knock catches me off guard. Three distinct, heavy knocks are coming from the room's entrance door leading to the hallway. I am tempted to head over, to lift the door veil and peek at whatever is standing on the other side. But it is not the time yet. I ignore it.

I slide both side windows open, looking down at the low rooftop and up at the high railing. Empty. Retreating from the edges, I head to the king-size bed next to the second side window and flop down onto it.

Something shifts. For the first time since the disasters began, the numbness of the space breaks. I actually feel it. The mattress is unyieldingly hard against my spine, yet the pillow sinks softly beneath my head. Sensation is returning the closer I get to the core of the house.

From here, staring at the ceiling, I can hear a rhythmic tapping sound coming from the rooftop room directly above me. I am directly beneath whatever was up there. I leave all the windows, and the balcony doors open to the dark. There is nothing outside anymore to protect myself from; the threats are all inside now. Closing my eyes against the sudden weight of the physical world, I wonder if you can dream within a dream.