She stands in the childhood bedroom of her husband, the room where she was born. In her hand, the block of wood, its grain shifting and turning to form an arrow that points at the antique wardrobe.
“What does it mean?” Mary asks her.
“I don't know,” she replies, “but there's only one way to find out.” With that, she reaches out and opens the door, stepping back quickly.
Inside, the contents of an old wardrobe hang innocently: coats that haven't seen daylight for years, shoes no longer in fashion or favour.
“Oh,” says Mary. “That's disappointing.”
