When Anna first saw the house, she was certain it had two front doors.
She stopped at the gate.
There was a blue door on the left and a green door on the right.
Both were open.
She looked down at the letter in her hand.
17 Bellweather Street.
She looked up again.
There was only one door.
It was blue.
Anna laughed.
She walked towards it.
Halfway up the path she looked back.
There were two doors again.
She stopped.
The green door closed.
The blue door remained open.
Anna decided that she was tired.
She went inside.
The hallway contained a table, a mirror and a clock.
The clock said ten past four.
Anna looked at her watch.
Her watch said twenty past four.
She checked her phone.
It said quarter past four.
She put all three devices on the table.
The clock stopped.
Her watch stopped.
The phone went dark.
Anna waited.
The clock started again.
It said ten past four.
She picked up her phone.
It said quarter past four.
Her watch said twenty past four.
She stared at them.
Then she noticed something written on the wall.
THE HOUSE HAS ALWAYS BEEN HERE.
Anna touched the words.
The paint was dry.
A woman appeared at the end of the hallway.
She was perhaps sixty, perhaps eighty.
It was difficult to tell.
“You're late,” she said.
“I'm sorry.”
“You're early.”
Anna looked at her.
“Which is it?”
The woman smiled.
“That depends on which history you're in.”
Anna glanced behind her.
The hallway looked exactly as it had before.
“What do you mean?”
The woman walked to the table.
“Did you come through the blue door?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
Anna hesitated.
“There was a green door.”
“No.”
“I saw it.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you saying there wasn't one?”
The woman looked almost amused.
“Because there wasn't.”
She led Anna into the kitchen.
There were two cups on the table.
One was empty.
The other was full.
“Tea?”
“No, thank you.”
The woman poured herself a cup.
“You're certain?”
“Yes.”
The woman nodded.
“Good.”
Anna watched her drink.
“Who are you?”
“I live here.”
“How long?”
The woman looked at the clock.
“Twenty-seven years.”
Anna glanced at the wall.
“Your clock says ten past four.”
“Yes.”
“My watch says twenty past.”
“Yes.”
“Does that bother you?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because they're both correct.”
Anna stared at her.
The woman smiled.
“You'll get used to it.”
They went upstairs.
There were two bedrooms.
One had a neatly made bed.
The other had an unmade bed.
“Which is yours?” Anna asked.
“Both.”
“That doesn't make sense.”
“It does here.”
The woman opened the first bedroom.
On the bedside table was a photograph.
Anna picked it up.
It showed the woman standing beside a man.
She recognised him.
She had never met him.
But she knew his face.
“Who is that?”
“My husband.”
“Where is he?”
“He died.”
“When?”
The woman looked at the photograph.
“Last Tuesday.”
Anna looked at her.
“Today is Thursday.”
“Yes.”
“I'm sorry.”
The woman smiled sadly.
“Thank you.”
Then Anna noticed something.
The photograph had changed.
The man was still there.
But now the woman was standing alone.
Anna blinked.
The original photograph returned.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“But—”
“You looked at it.”
That evening they sat in the sitting room.
The woman put a coin on the table.
“Choose.”
“Choose what?”
“Heads or tails.”
Anna looked at the coin.
“Heads.”
The woman placed a glass over it.
“Now don't look.”
Anna waited.
“Has it landed?”
“Yes.”
“Which?”
The woman smiled.
“You chose heads.”
“That isn't what I asked.”
“No.”
Anna frowned.
“What's underneath the glass?”
“A coin.”
“With heads or tails?”
The woman looked at her.
“Why does it have to be one?”
“Because it landed.”
“Did you see it land?”
“No.”
“Then perhaps you are asking the wrong question.”
Anna stood.
She lifted the glass.
The coin showed heads.
She laughed.
“There.”
The woman said nothing.
Anna turned the coin over.
Tails.
She turned it back.
Heads.
Again.
Tails.
She dropped it.
The coin rolled across the table.
When it stopped, it was standing on its edge.
Anna stared.
The woman said:
“Now you're asking a better question.”
The next morning Anna tried an experiment.
She placed a red ball in one room and a blue ball in the other.
She closed both doors.
Then she walked away.
When she returned, one ball was on the stairs.
The other was missing.
She searched the house.
Nothing.
She opened the red-room door.
The red ball was there.
She opened the blue-room door.
The blue ball was there.
She looked at the stairs.
Nothing.
She closed both doors.
When she opened them again, the red ball was on the stairs.
The blue ball was gone.
Anna sat down.
The woman entered.
“It's happening again,” Anna said.
“Yes.”
“How do I stop it?”
“You can't.”
“Why?”
“Because you're trying to find out what happened.”
“I need to know.”
The woman nodded.
“That is precisely the problem.”
Anna began keeping notes.
At 9:03, the red ball was in the first room.
At 9:07, the blue ball was in the second.
At 9:12, she heard a sound upstairs.
At 9:13, there was no sound.
At 9:15, she wrote:
THE RED BALL WAS ON THE STAIRS.
She stared at the sentence.
Then crossed it out.
She wrote:
THE RED BALL MAY HAVE BEEN ON THE STAIRS.
That seemed safer.
She crossed that out too.
Finally she wrote:
WHEN I LOOKED, THE RED BALL WAS ON THE STAIRS.
She stopped.
That sentence felt different.
Not more certain.
More accurate.
That afternoon the woman took Anna into a room she had not seen before.
It was almost empty.
There was a chair in the centre.
“Sit.”
Anna sat.
“Look at the wall.”
There were two photographs.
In one, Anna was sitting in the chair.
In the other, the chair was empty.
“Which one is real?”
The woman did not answer.
Anna stood.
The photographs changed.
Now both showed her sitting.
She sat down.
One photograph showed the empty chair.
She stood again.
Both photographs showed her standing.
“What is this?”
“The room remembers what you ask it to remember.”
“That isn't possible.”
The woman smiled.
“You have been saying that since yesterday.”
Anna began to understand the house.
Or thought she did.
It was not that things changed when she looked at them.
It was that looking forced a choice among possibilities.
The house had not been keeping a secret from her.
It had been refusing to answer a question she had assumed had only one answer.
She tested this with the doors.
She stood in the hallway.
There were two.
She closed her eyes.
She walked towards the left.
She opened her eyes.
One door.
Blue.
She closed them again.
She turned right.
She opened them.
Green.
One door.
She laughed.
The house was playing tricks.
Then she heard someone knocking.
The woman was standing at the front door.
“Don't open it,” she said.
“Why?”
“Because someone is outside.”
“Who?”
“I don't know.”
“Then how do you know?”
The woman looked frightened.
Anna had never seen her frightened before.
“Because I remember letting him in.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow.”
Anna stared at her.
“You can't remember tomorrow.”
The woman shook her head.
“I can now.”
The knocking came again.
Three times.
Anna stepped towards the door.
“Don't.”
“But if he's outside—”
“He isn't.”
Anna stopped.
The knocking came again.
The woman whispered:
“He is.”
Anna opened the door.
There was a man standing on the path.
She recognised him immediately.
He was the man from the photograph.
Her heart stopped.
The man smiled.
“I'm sorry I'm late.”
The woman behind her made a sound.
Not quite a cry.
Not quite a laugh.
Anna looked from one to the other.
The man stepped inside.
The woman stared at him.
“You're dead.”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Last Tuesday.”
“But today is Thursday.”
“I know.”
Anna looked at the photograph on the table.
It showed the woman and the man together.
Then she looked at the man.
Then back at the photograph.
There was something wrong.
The man in the photograph was wearing a different coat.
He looked younger.
The woman looked younger too.
The room seemed suddenly very quiet.
“Which history is this?” Anna asked.
Nobody answered.
The man walked into the sitting room.
He picked up the coin.
“Ah,” he said.
“Heads or tails?”
He looked at Anna.
“Both.”
He tossed it.
It disappeared.
Anna stared.
The woman closed her eyes.
The man said:
“You see?”
“What?”
“It was never the coin that was strange.”
“Then what was?”
He looked at her.
“You.”
Anna felt suddenly cold.
“Me?”
“You keep asking questions that assume the answer exists before you ask.”
“That doesn't make sense.”
“No,” said the man.
“It doesn't.”
The three of them stood in the hallway.
There were two front doors.
Blue.
Green.
Anna looked at the woman.
“Which one should I use?”
The woman said nothing.
She looked at the man.
He shrugged.
Anna opened the blue door.
Outside was the street.
She closed it.
She opened the green door.
Outside was the same street.
But it was night.
Anna closed it.
She opened the blue door again.
Morning.
She closed it.
Green.
Night.
Blue.
Rain.
Green.
Sunlight.
Blue.
An empty street.
Green.
A crowded one.
She stopped.
“What happens if I open both?”
The woman whispered:
“Don't.”
Anna looked at her.
“Why?”
“Because then the house will have to decide.”
Anna put her hand on the second handle.
The man reached for her wrist.
Too late.
She opened both doors.
There was no explosion.
No flash.
No sound.
The hallway simply became very large.
Anna could see the street through both doors.
She could also see the kitchen.
The upstairs bedroom.
The room with the photographs.
The chair.
The coin.
The woman.
The man.
Herself.
All at once.
Not as reflections.
As possibilities.
She saw herself opening the blue door.
She saw herself opening the green.
She saw herself walking away.
She saw herself staying.
She saw herself never entering the house.
She saw herself arriving tomorrow.
She saw herself arriving yesterday.
She saw herself standing in the hallway, watching all these versions of herself.
Then she understood.
The house did not have two histories.
It had no single history at all.
Not until someone asked it to have one.
Anna closed the doors.
The hallway became small again.
The woman was gone.
The man was gone.
The house was empty.
There was only the table.
On it was a photograph.
Anna picked it up.
It showed the house.
There were two front doors.
She turned the photograph over.
On the back was written:
17 BELLWEATHER STREET
Below it, in smaller handwriting:
THE HOUSE HAS ALWAYS BEEN HERE.
Anna put the photograph down.
She went to the front door.
There was only one.
It was blue.
She opened it.
Outside was the street.
A bus passed.
A dog barked.
Someone was mowing a lawn.
Everything was ordinary.
Anna stepped outside.
Then she stopped.
Something was wrong.
She looked back.
The house had two doors.
She blinked.
One.
Two.
One.
Two.
She laughed.
Perhaps she was tired.
She walked down the path.
At the gate she turned around.
There was one house.
One door.
One window.
One history.
Anna smiled.
Then she noticed the second window.
She had never seen it before.
Someone was standing behind it.
It was Anna.
She was looking out.
They looked at each other.
Neither moved.
Then the Anna inside the house raised her hand.
Anna outside raised hers.
For a moment, neither of them knew which one had been there first.
And somewhere inside the house, behind a closed door, a coin landed.
Nobody looked.
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