The lamp had not been lit in eleven years, and still she climbed the stairs each evening at dusk, counting them aloud against the wind.
Forty-two — the same as the year her father stopped speaking. She had learned the number before she learned the word for it, and the sound of it in her mouth was the sound of the stair itself: worn granite, a hollow under the seventh tread, salt in every seam.
The glass at the top was intact. That was the part nobody in the village believed. Every winter someone swore the storm had finally taken it, and every spring she carried the same bucket up and washed the same panes, and the light that went through them went nowhere at all.
What she wanted was not the light. What she wanted was the climbing.