The stairwell between the second and third floors

The stairwell between the second and third floors has a particular acoustic that I have come to rely on. Not for listening to anything played deliberately, but for the sound of my own footsteps, keys in pocket, the rustle of a paper bag.

When all the doors on both landings are closed, the space becomes a vertical chamber. Footsteps double back on themselves. A cough hangs in the air longer than it should. The sound does not decay so much as fold into itself, like a paper being creased multiple times in the same spot.

The doors open

When the door to the second floor is propped open—usually by the building's cleaning schedule, sometimes by a neighbor airing out paint fumes—the entire character shifts. The stairwell loses its enclosed quality. Sound travels outward instead of circling. Footsteps land once and disappear into the carpeted hallway beyond.

I have learned to read the space by ear before I reach it. If I hear my own breathing clearly from the first-floor landing, I know the upper door is open. If I hear nothing until I am already climbing, both are shut.

What it holds

This is not a room I inhabit, but one I pass through. Still, it holds time in a way that rooms meant for staying do not. I have carried groceries up these stairs in every season. I have paused on the landing between floors to catch my breath, to finish a thought, to let someone else descend first.

The walls are painted a color that was probably called "linen" or "flax" when it was chosen. The paint has a slight texture, enough to catch light from the small window at the top of the third-floor landing. In the afternoon, that light reaches down about eight steps. In winter, it barely makes it past the landing itself.

I do not think about this stairwell when I am not in it, but when I am, it is the only room that exists.

— w.