The Cartographer of Lost Rooms

The house had seventeen rooms the night I bought it, and by morning there were nineteen. I sat on the porch drinking coffee that had gone cold in my hands, listening to floors settle in a building that was, according to the deed clenched between my teeth, only three years old. The realtor had disappeared exactly the way realtors don't. Her business cards began arriving in the mailbox unaddressed, one every hour, until I stopped opening it.