# The Spiral The door opened, and Rina saw the hallway stretching before her—not the familiar passage of her building, but something else entirely. The walls seemed to breathe. The peeling paint exhaled a smell of rust and old plaster. She stood at the threshold, her hand still on the doorknob, and knew at once that nothing would be the same. "Mother?" she called out. No answer. Only the sound of water dripping somewhere in the depths of the darkness. She had fallen asleep on the sofa after tea. That much she remembered. Sunlight had been pouring through the bay window, striping the floor with gold. She had meant to rest for only ten minutes. But when she opened her eyes again, the light was gone, and the hallway—which should not have existed, for her flat opened directly onto the landing—was stretching before her like an accusation. Rina took a step forward. The wood groaned beneath her feet. Behind her, she could still see her room—the armchair, the lamp, the photographs on the shelf—but it seemed smaller now, as if it were being pulled away from her. She almost turned back. Instead, she walked deeper into the hallway. The walls grew narrower. The dripping sound grew louder. She passed doors she had never seen before, all of them closed, their paint the color of old teeth. One of them bore her name. She stopped. Yes, it was her name, written in her own handwriting, peeling from the wood in curls: *Rina.* Below it, in fainter letters, another name: *Mother.* Her hand was shaking when she reached for the handle. The door opened inward, revealing a staircase spiraling downward. The steps were worn smooth by countless footfalls. The walls of the stairwell curved in a hypnotic pattern—not painted but carved, the grooves deepening as they twisted down and down and down. A voice drifted up from below. It was her mother's voice, but wrong somehow—stretched, as if it were traveling through water. "Come down, *beta*. Come down. I've been waiting." Rina descended. The spiral never seemed to change. Somewhere in her mind, a distant part of her—the part that had a dentist appointment next Tuesday, the part that paid electricity bills—was screaming. But she was no longer listening to that part. She was listening to the voice below and the sound of her own footsteps, counting them as they echoed: one, two, three, four... The numbers began to repeat. Four came again. And again. Always four. When she finally reached the bottom, she found herself in a room that was exactly like her bedroom, except that all the photographs on the shelf were facing backward. The lamp was on, casting a light that seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere at once. And in the armchair, backlit and indistinct, sat a figure. "You've been here before," the figure said. It was her mother's voice, and not her mother's voice. "Many times." "No," Rina whispered. "No, I fell asleep on the sofa. I just woke up." "Yes," the figure agreed. "You did. Just now. Just as you always do." Rina turned around. The staircase was gone. There was only a wall, smooth and blank and white. When she turned back, the figure was standing now, facing her. It had no face—just the suggestion of one, the way smoke suggests a shape. "Will you go back up?" it asked. "Where is my mother?" "Here. There. Everywhere. She went down the spiral long before you did. And she'll wait at the bottom until you go deeper still. That's how it works." Rina's legs carried her forward—she didn't remember deciding to move—and she began to feel around the white wall with her hands. There. A groove. And another. The wall was not a wall at all, but a door, carved so perfectly that it had seemed invisible. She pulled it open. Another hallway stretched before her. Another door with her name on it. "How many?" she asked, though the figure was already fading, becoming less distinct, like something dissolving in water. "As many as you need," it answered. "Or as many as you're allowed. I can never remember which." The door closed behind her. Rina stood in the hallway again, her hand on another doorknob, the same door and yet not the same door. Behind her lay the room with the armchair and the photographs and the lamp burning in the dark. Ahead lay the spiral. She had almost reached the bottom—she was certain of this, though she had no way of knowing. The dripping sound was louder now. Clearer. No longer a drip but a voice, calling her name. Rina opened the door. The staircase was waiting.

One.

I love looking at your childhood photographs. I want to hold you, to cherish you. And yet it fills me with such longing. I was once that innocent, that enchanting too. Why didn't two such enchanting people meet back then?

The little ones are organizing a picnic outside; I'm amazed—do they really go on picnics! The rain is falling steadily, tap by tap.

There's something about rain that moves me! I told the rain, don't stop, stay all night, if you can, come as a storm.

Two.

I had told the rain, stay all night today. My beloved will come. The whole rain-drenched night will be ours alone. Perhaps I had slipped into some kind of spell. I had forgotten who I was, who you were. Then suddenly you reminded me of everything, my spell broke, and all my joy turned to sorrow.

Some time passed in restlessness. It's true, isn't it—with so many choices before you, why would you love me! But the truth, the one thing I know and you don't, I screamed it out: that spell, that enchantment is the truth, everything else is a lie.

I don't know if you heard me.

Love has no definition, my dear. Your body is so intimately mine. I needed, in exhaustion, to fall asleep against you.

Why did the rain go away so slowly? We only wanted to share one night of rain together.

My head is spinning terribly. Listen, never remind me again who I am. I won't be here much longer.

You're exhausted too; come, sleep a little.

Three.

Listen, being your beloved isn't easy. Handling you is impossibly hard. Who else could do it besides me, tell me! Who has such love to give?

Be quiet, don't say so much. Don't write another line. You will only sleep beside me.

Four.

This attempt at temporary well-being—life is nothing but suffering. For so long I've forgotten who I am, what my life is. Nothing brings me joy, my dear. One cannot truly live with this much detachment. See how I cling to you. Even if you humiliate me, I don't let it touch me; even if you throw me away, perhaps I'll come back. Besides this, there is nothing else in the world that brings me any good. You cannot even imagine the sorrow I carry.

You had a 'you' once too, didn't you? Where is she now? I want to know—who is that fortunate one, how did she love you? I would be consumed with jealousy—but I don't even have the strength for that. Tell me about her someday, and I will listen with desperate longing.

I am never thanked for you. That you write such beautiful things, that you love me even a little—this is my greatest fortune.

Five.

This is my life. How much disgust lives within me...

All day I didn't even pick up the phone, afraid of the people at home, and still there's no peace. Now I'm writing to you with the door closed. If there were any refuge anywhere, I would flee from all these people.

I have been taught not to entertain such frivolous thoughts as suicide, but these days I understand only too well—when everything around someone is so unbearable, how they search for a way out. Oh, if only I could die somehow!

I want to ignore all externalities, but if you're surrounded by people who constantly diminish you, then ignoring becomes impossible. Emotional numbness is very useful.

Six.

I ask for forgiveness first.

I have two selves, two lives. One is inside me—full of perfect joy, my soul's truth. The other is outside—the daily household, tormented by circumstance. I want to escape from here, but I find no way. Often I cannot keep pace with both worlds at once; forgive me for that. I simply fade away in silence.

I had wandered away for a while.

How strange—I saw you in a dream again! Such wounded pride in it. Such heavenly tenderness. Something sharp and dear twisted inside me, a pain I’ve come to treasure. My whole world of thoughts scattered, tangled once more.

To whom can I show my suffering? Why did God split me into two worlds? Can’t you free me from this place?

To live in my world of perfect joy, to dwell in my dream realm, to build a life of dignified love with my beloved—I suppose there’s no way but eternal sleep.

Seven.

Can I tell you something?

The one I see in dreams looks exactly like you. With them, I can speak openly, simply, pour out everything. I can be tender if I wish. With you, even now, there’s a stiffness that holds me back—is it pride, or fear?

Can’t you come to me simply? Can’t you close the distance between dream and waking?

Eight.

For days I haven’t had time to read your letters, haven’t even made the time. I grow resentful too. Living this wrong life, with the wrong person—I know how hard I struggle each day—that’s my resentment toward you all! Without such resentment, where would I find the strength to bear it?

I know the world never values wounded pride. A small life—and it’s nearly over.

I can accept everything, only—that the person I cherish is suffering—I can’t bear that.

Nine.

There’s much hardness in me too; I can’t be easy with anyone. This ease I write with now—if I sense the slightest slight or neglect, I withdraw, no matter the pain.

How many times have I left you, only to return? This one place defeats me; something—a third force—keeps me bound here.

You don’t speak to me directly. In any serious moment, there’s no way to tell you. Must I always be the one to understand, my love?

Sit in my place for a day and think—how much love must one have to surrender oneself to emptiness? Can you ever repay what this love costs?

Even if you tried, I wouldn’t accept it. You could give the world everything, but you can never give me anything. I am harder than you.

Ten.

Inside me live so many words, so many stories, so much love, so much pride—that will never be spoken. I am spent each day. I have no expectations of anyone in this world. Only from my one true person do I ask for something—once, with eyes closed, to breathe deeply against their chest in perfect trust. Then all my sorrow, condensed grain by grain, would dissolve in tears. After that, death would bring no regret.

Eleven.

Suddenly I’ve grown very calm, my love. Reading your letter brought such peace—as though all the storms within stilled into a quiet river. You know how sometimes after the deepest joy comes a certain melancholy. In English they call it melancholy—something like that.

Never mind. I didn’t get to write to you last night. You don’t write as much as you could. When you write too much, I worry—are you taking proper care of yourself? This age is delicate; you need peace of mind—not excitement or the strain of too much work.

Don’t think I’m lecturing. I’m simply trying to tell you plainly.

Twelve.

I can’t remember the title of one of your pieces—there’s something you wrote: “If I loved you this much?

“When you come into this room, I won’t light the lamps—you’ll burn as light itself…” I don’t know who I wrote that for; how desperately I was in love then! I never said a word about it—all of that, an age ago. We were all young then; I still remember some of the people from your life in those days. There was one who had a rather humorous nature.

So much to do… I’ll be back in a moment.

Oh yes, what I was saying—there was a line in that piece: “If I let you drift away on love’s fierce current, could you hold steady…?”

Truly, a fierce current is hard to bear.

Thirteen.

All I can say is this: I love you—and there’s not another drop of strength left in me to say anything more. How much longer must I define myself? That I am a person—scattered, broken, disheveled, dying—cannot I be loved like this, beloved?

You alone can float me into happiness, make me weep in sorrow. Do with me as you wish, beloved; I am accustomed to tears. No one in this world owes me the burden of love—I too am just a person! Keep all your love for that “you” of yours. I am but dust on a path; what little you’ve given is all the blessing I could ask.

I thought some angel would come and free me from my torment. The moment I fall silent, you begin to misunderstand me. Let me be silent forever, beloved; cast me away in your misunderstanding. I no longer wish to live.

Fourteen.

Tonight is not for my sleep. Tonight is only for enduring, for bearing. For staring into emptiness, for growing used to the clock’s relentless ticking. And for praying for that one person—the one whose distance makes life tangled. Whom I long to love, yet it lies beyond my reach.