The Space Within the Wall

“What do you want, Iris?” her aunt asked from across the dinner table. A spoon touched the rim of a glass. Iris looked up. “What do you mean?” Sophia asked, reaching for the water jug. “Her future,” her aunt said. “She must have thought about it.” Iris set down her spoon. “Well, I was thinking—” “Why don’t you apply for the teaching position?” Sophia said. “The school near the market is hiring. The hours are good, and you wouldn’t have to travel far.” Her mother glanced at Iris. “That would be sensible. You could manage your other work, too.” Iris’s lips parted. She looked at her mother, then at Sophia. “Yes,” she said after a moment. “I suppose I could.” “Applications close next week,” Sophia added. “You should get started soon.” “I’ll find the details tomorrow,” her mother said. Someone passed the bread. Her uncle began telling a story about a neighbor whose new gate had been installed backward. Sophia laughed before he had finished. Iris reached for her glass. “Did you hear me, Iris?” her uncle asked. “The gate opens into the wall!” She smiled. “No. What happened?” And the conversation carried on. The following afternoon, Iris opened the cupboard beneath her desk, searching for a document. A stack of old papers slid forward. She caught them against her knee. Something blue lay beneath them. She pulled it free. It was a notebook, its corners softened, her name written across the cover in uneven letters: IRIS. She sat on the floor and opened it. A girl stood outside a locked door on the first page. Beneath the drawing, in a child’s handwriting, was a question: Who decided I couldn’t go in? Iris turned the page. A few lines of a story followed, then another drawing, then a page covered with crossed-out beginnings. From downstairs, her mother called, “Iris? Have you seen the spare keys?” “I’m looking!” She closed the notebook and pushed herself to her feet. The keys were on the kitchen shelf beneath a folded cloth. Her mother took them with a distracted thank-you and returned to what she was doing. Iris went back upstairs. The cupboard stood open. She placed the notebook on the desk beside a clean sheet of paper and pulled out the chair. For a while, she turned the pen between her fingers. Then she opened the notebook again. The garden was quiet except for the tap dripping near the back door. Iris carried the notebook outside and sat beside the low garden wall. The afternoon sun had begun to slip behind the rooftops, stretching shadows across the path. A breeze stirred the leaves overhead; one dry leaf scraped along the stone and stopped against her shoe. She moved it aside. Something violet caught her eye. An iris grew in the narrow strip of soil between the wall and the path. Its stem leaned slightly toward the light, while the wall stood firm behind it, holding the day’s warmth in its rough gray stones. Iris crouched beside the flower. One petal trembled in the breeze. The others held their shape, soft and bright against the stone. “Where did you come from?” she murmured. “I’m looking for you!” her younger cousin called from across the garden. Iris turned. “What happened?” “Can you help me find my ribbon? I left it somewhere near the steps.” “Did you look under the bench?” “Yes. Twice.” Iris closed the notebook and stood. “Then let’s look again.” They searched beneath the bench and along the steps. The ribbon had caught on a rosebush, its end fluttering like a small flag. “There!” the child cried. Iris freed it carefully and handed it over. “Thank you!” The child ran inside. For a moment, Iris remained beside the steps. From the kitchen came the clatter of dishes; somewhere beyond the wall, a bicycle bell rang twice. The afternoon continued without waiting for her. She returned to the flower. The sunlight had shifted. A long shadow crossed the wall, reaching almost to the iris’s stem. The flower remained open. Iris sat down and placed the notebook on her knees. She turned to a blank page. The pen hovered. Then she wrote: There must be a way through a wall that doesn’t require breaking it. She read the sentence once. Her thumb rested against the edge of the page. “Iris!” her mother called from inside. She looked toward the door, then down at the notebook. “Coming!” She left the pen uncapped and went inside. The page stirred in the breeze. The sentence remained. By evening, the notebook had made its way to the kitchen table. Iris had brought it inside when the shadows reached the garden steps. Now it lay beside a pile of folded laundry, its blue cover half-hidden beneath a sleeve. Her mother picked up the laundry and noticed it. “Is this yours?” Iris looked up from the plates she was arranging. “Yes.” “Your old notebook?” She nodded. Her mother opened the cover. Her fingers paused over the uneven letters of Iris’s name. “You used to write in this all the time.” “I know.” “Are you writing again?” Iris placed a plate on the table. “A little.” Her mother turned a page, then another. “You always had so many stories. Do you remember the one about the girl who lived in a house made of glass?” Iris almost smiled. “You said it would be difficult to keep clean.” “And I was right.” Her mother laughed softly and closed the notebook. “You should finish your other work first, though. You have enough to do tomorrow.” She moved toward the stove. Iris watched her lift the lid from a pot. Steam clouded the window above the sink. “Ma?” Her mother glanced back. “Hmm?” Iris rubbed a thumb along the edge of the nearest plate. “I want to finish this one.” Her mother looked at the notebook, then at Iris. “All right,” she said after a moment. “Just don’t leave everything else until the last minute.” “I won’t.” Her mother turned back to the stove. “Bring the spoons, please.” Iris gathered them from the drawer. When she had finished setting the table, she picked up the notebook. This time, she carried it upstairs instead of putting it away in the cupboard. Rain began sometime after midnight. It tapped at Iris’s window while she sat at her desk, one knee tucked beneath her, the notebook open beside a fresh sheet of paper. She had written three pages. On the fourth, her main character stood before a door, her hand resting against the handle. Iris read the paragraph again. Then she crossed out a sentence. The girl had spent the whole story waiting for someone to tell her which door to open. Iris had given her a mother, a teacher, a neighbor, and even a stranger passing through the street. Each one had an opinion. None of them had turned the handle. Iris uncapped her pen. Downstairs, a cupboard shut. “Iris?” her mother called. “Could you help me put these dishes away?” She looked at the clock, then at the unfinished page. “I’m coming!” She went downstairs and found her mother beside the kitchen counter, stacking clean dishes. “Could you put those on the upper shelf?” her mother asked. “My hands are wet.” Iris dried her hands and took the plates. One by one, she placed them in the cupboard. Her mother passed her the last bowl. “Thank you. You can go back to what you were doing.” Iris paused, bowl in hand. “What I’m doing?” 6 “Your writing,” her mother said, as if the answer were obvious. “You were writing, weren’t you?” “Yes.” “Then go on.” Iris returned to her room. The rain had softened to a whisper. She sat down and read the unfinished paragraph once more. Her character still stood before the door. Iris put the pen to the paper. For a moment, she did nothing. Then she wrote a new sentence beneath the crossed-out one: She turned the handle before she could think of another reason to wait. Iris read it aloud, quietly. Outside, rainwater slipped from the roof in steady drops. She changed turned to pressed, considered it, then changed it back. She wrote the next sentence. And the next. When she reached the end of the page, the girl had stepped through the door. Iris set down her pen and leaned back. The room smelled of damp earth drifting through the open window. The wall opposite her desk had faded into the darkness, its edges barely visible. She turned to a clean page. There was still more to write. Morning light rested across the desk. Iris sat with the finished story in front of her. A few words had been crossed out; one sentence had been moved to the previous page. She read the final paragraph again, following each line with the tip of her finger. At the bottom of the last page, there was a space beneath the final sentence. She had left it empty. “Iris! Breakfast!” her mother called from downstairs. “One minute!” Iris looked at the empty space. The pen lay beside her hand. She could leave it as it was. The story was finished enough to be read, finished enough to be put away with the old notebook and forgotten among the papers in the cupboard. She dipped the pen. Iris. The name came out slightly crooked. The final s curled beneath the rest of the letters. She looked at it, then closed the notebook. Downstairs, a chair scraped against the floor. “Iris?” “Coming!” She placed the notebook on the desk rather than in the cupboard and went downstairs. After breakfast, she carried her cup to the sink and rinsed it. Her mother was checking a list beside the refrigerator. “Could you bring the things in from the garden later?” she asked. “The rain has left everything wet.” “I will.” Iris dried her hands and went outside. Water clung to the wall, darkening the stone. Near the path, the iris flower had opened further. A drop of rain trembled at the edge of one petal before falling into the soil. She crouched beside it, careful not to press her knee into the damp earth. From the kitchen, her mother called her name again. Iris stood. “I’m coming.” She walked toward the house, then glanced once at the flower before stepping inside. Upstairs, the notebook remained open on the desk, her name resting beneath the final line.

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