The Stairway

When I was two or three years old, I lived in a house that had a strange atmosphere. I do not remember anything about the house except the stairway. It was dark, speaking and quite narrow, and its steps were a little high for me to climb up. From the bottom of the stairway, it seemed like an endless climb to the top. Beyond the darkness at the top of the stairway, there was a middle-aged, elegant lady leaning against the wall. 

I had to pass her every time I went to my room, for my room was the first room form the stairs on the second floor. The lady wore a beautiful dress with a quiet pattern and a tinge of blue, and her peaceful eyes stared at me every time I went became fixed on me. I was scared, yet I was  also curious about there and watched me clamber up the stairs. 

One day I touched her, but did not react. Her face did not change expression, nor did she even blink. She just kept staring at me with her glittering eyes. Later, we moved out of the house, and I never saw her again. Now that the was a mannequin. My aunt, whom I lived with, used it for her dressmaking. I did not know my mother. Maybe I imagined that the mannequin standing at, the top of my mother. The stairway with the strange atmosphere has an airplane in my earliest memories.