The mirrors on the hallway walls weren’t decorative.

  They were mismatched—shards nailed crudely into the wooden panels, some no larger than her palm.

  Each reflected only part of her: a shoulder here, a sliver of cheek there, an eye half-obscured by grime.

  It made walking forward feel like being dissected, piece by piece.

  At the far end of the hall stood a low table with a brass oil lamp. Its flame burned steady despite the cold drafts.

  Beyond it, a staircase spiralled up into darkness.

  “Ira Sen,” came a voice.

  It wasn’t a question.

  She turned.

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  A woman stood in a side doorway, draped in faded green silk.

  Her face was pale, angular, and her hair hung in a long braid streaked with silver. But it was her eyes that unsettled Ira—clouded with cataracts, yet staring straight at her.

  “I…, yes,” Ira said. “You’re Ama Dey?”

  The woman didn’t respond.

  Instead, she turned and disappeared into the room behind her.

  Ira followed.

  The room was small and low-ceilinged, its walls covered in old photographs— sepia-toned, water-stained, but all strangely vivid.

  They showed villagers in front of the same twelve houses. Same faces. Same poses.

  But some photos were dated decades apart.

  “How long have these people lived here?” Ira asked.

  Ama Dey sat down slowly on a straw mat and motioned for Ira to do the same.

  “They don’t live here,” she said, her voice like dried leaves.

  “They remain.”

  Ira frowned. “Remain? You mean—”

  Ama raised a finger and pointed to one of the photos.

  “I was born in 1896.” she said.

  The photo showed her as a child, holding a black stone.