Every summer, 17-year-old Tara was sent to her grandmother’s crumbling Art Deco apartment complex: The Opaline. With stained-glass skylights, elephant-head water faucets, and mosaic tiles that formed a celestial map if you looked hard enough, the building was strange, like it had been designed during a fever dream.
Tara hated it.
She hated the creaky floorboards, the faint scent of mothballs and jasmine, and most of all, the antique elevator.