I live on the second floor.

The stairs to the first landing have 12 steps; from there to first floor another 12. Then 10 steps to the landing and 8 to our floor.

I know these steps well. I’ve walked them daily for the last two and a half years, after all. So I normally don’t turn on the light in the stairwell, even when it’s pitch black outside.

Everything goes fine until the last step – I walk at a normal pace. But then at the last moment, something stops my foot, and I am really, really careful with that final step, even if I’ve reminded myself just seconds earlier that there’s no need.

I know that there are exactly eight steps, and that I haven’t counted wrong. I know that there is nothing there I could stumble over. (And even if there was, there’s an equally good chance that there’s something further down – then I should be careful about every step.) And I’m never careful when going down, only up.

But none of it helps. I still hesitate.

Sometimes I just barely catch the faint last edge of a fear – of stepping over the edge…