Good morning. My feet sink into the deep, soft mattress as I stare at the yellow square on the wall in front of me. This poster is nearly three-fourths my height, and the large letters appear handwritten. “Good morning to you too,” I say cheerfully before muttering, “whoever you are.”
No one replies.
At the bed’s opposite edge, I look over a low wooden rim. Another yellow square lies on the blue floor, much farther away than I expect, and I have to squint to read the writing.
Be careful climbing down.
A ledge juts out about midway down the wall. Swinging my legs over the edge, I lower myself but come up short and hang there, clutching the rim. I could’ve sworn I was tall enough.
I stretch my leg like a ballerina and clasp my toes around the ledge, the contact with cold metal jolting me so one hand comes loose, but my other foot finds purchase. I let go and crouch to repeat the process. This time, my feet can’t reach the bottom, so I take a deep breath before letting myself drop. The fall lasts a split second, my knees instinctively bending as I land on the springy floor.
My clothes shift on impact, so I pull the silky smooth sleeve back onto my right shoulder. The nightdress hangs over my knees and is cinched at my waist by a fine golden rope as thick as the white threads at the garment’s seams. Before I can ponder the oddly sized stitching, I notice another yellow square under the ledge.
Turn around, but don’t be alarmed.
The message itself is alarming, but curiosity overtakes me. Nothing—especially not the note—could have prepared me for what I see.
I’m in an enormous enclosure, the white ceiling far above my head like an overcast sky. An impossibly large blue tarp covers a warehouse-like structure rising on my right. It abuts the building where I slept, the lower level extending further forward than the upper. If everything wasn’t so massive, I’d swear I’m looking at a bed and nightstand, my mattress stuffed inside the bottom drawer.
Before the room’s occupant returns, I run, the fibers of the floor like thistle tickling my feet. In the distance is an open doorway, tall enough for a person at least fifteen times my size, and I see another yellow square at its bottom. I’m being led somewhere, hopefully to a beanstalk to escape this giant world.
Doors are always open.
Unsettling as it is, I should be grateful that the primary resident doesn’t want me completely trapped. I suppose it’s better than being caged like a pet.
Beyond the doorway, the carpet changes to a hardwood floor, with planks like lanes of an athletic track. I choose one and crane my neck to examine the sheer immensity of the place. An open door on my left leads into another bedroom, and the sound of a waterfall reverberates beyond the mostly closed door ahead of me. A bathroom, I presume, and not where I should go at my size—whatever size that is.
Am I normal in an oversized house, or tiny in a normal house? I reach behind me to feel my shoulder blades, checking for fairy wings. Or am I a leprechaun? A Lilliputian? How can I name these creatures but not know which I am?
To my right, the floor ends at a precipice. I inch closer to the edge, and on the first of several smaller cliffs, a yellow square crosses the horizon.
There’s an easier way down.
Other than being scooped up and carried—a thought which makes me shudder—what options are there? Another note is posted down the hallway on the fifth in a series of white columns connected to a railing high above.
You must be this tall to ride.
Standing against the pillar, I’m saddened to discover I’m slightly shorter than the note’s accompanying line. As long as I can ride whatever I’m supposed to, I’ll assume my unseen tour guide measured incorrectly.
Between the next two columns sits an open red bucket—a drinking cup? Tied to holes in it, four white ropes rise upward and twist together before winding around a pulley secured to the railing. Hoping this dumbwaiter contraption is safe, I vault myself inside.
I reach for a dangling length of rope outside the cup and heave it downward. My carriage lifts off and swings into the free space beyond the balcony. Once it’s steadily suspended in midair, I move one hand under the other to lower myself to the floor below.
There’s a prolonged shrill creak followed by loud thumps above me. Too afraid to look, I quicken my descent to get as far away as possible.
“I see you’re out of bed, Lil,” bellows a deep masculine voice from the heavens.
The creature’s footsteps grow closer but not quicker. I glance up then over the side, estimating I’m halfway down. There’s nothing I can do; he’s going to spot me.
A shadow eclipses me as he comes down the stairs. His legs, draped in gray, are wider than most tree trunks. A white shirt covers his paunch, slimmer than I’d expect for a fairytale giant. He passes in profile, too far away—or too huge for my field of vision—to see facial features other than dark hair with gray streaks circling the back of his otherwise bald head. He approaches me, and I find myself face to nose with him.
“May I give you a lift?” he asks, offering a palm longer than I am.
Terrified, I immediately shake my head.
Crevices form outside the blue eyes behind his glasses. “I understand.”
He turns and lumbers away, disappearing around a corner. I wish I had seen his entire face. Maybe I’d recognize him or feel less panicky, but it’s difficult to stay calm around someone so much larger.
My arms ache when the cup reaches the floor, and my breathing is heavy. The rope is still taut, precisely measured to reach the floor. I climb out, and my feet land on another yellow square.
Enjoy the baseboard gallery.
Instead of artwork, I see a giant-sized sofa and matching recliner facing a television larger than a movie screen. I stay close to the wall, minimizing the chance of being accidentally trampled, but I’m startled when I pass two figures twice my size.
They’re not real. It’s a photograph of a young dark-haired man in a black tuxedo and a beautiful blonde in an elegant wedding gown.
Their faces are too high to identify, so I step toward light shimmering in my periphery. A mirror, where I see my ill-fitting tunic is dust-stained, and my light hair is unkempt.
Rotated on its long side, the next intricate frame provides a closer view of the same happy couple. Though the crow’s feet and other signs of age aren’t there, his inviting blue eyes are exactly the giant’s. Also younger and less world-weary, her face—my face—stares back at me like a reflection.
Could I be the woman in the photographs with him? Why did our sizes match then, but now we’re different? The note posted on the frame doesn’t answer my questions.
Our special day, Lil.
“What is all this?” I shout, doubting my small voice can reach his distant ears.
A sudden earthquake knocks me down. On my hands and knees, I watch his bare feet step around the corner. He crouches, and I scamper away.
“Don’t be afraid,” he says calmly, sticking a square to the floor then sitting cross-legged before me.
Is anything helping today?
Turning back toward the frames, I shrug.
Something clanks on the floor behind me. Near the square lies a pair of thick golden hoops, one of them with a large, jagged crystal where bursts of color emerge. Etchings along the other band’s inner circumference read Frederick and Lillian, followed by a date.
“When was that?” I ask.
Smiling wistfully, he answers, “Thirty years ago.”
He leans forward, ever so slightly, but the motion intimidates me and I cower. “Why can’t I remember?”
“Memory loss. As you got smaller, your brain capacity—”
“So I used to be… your size?”
He nods. “Everyone said we fit perfectly.”
My head throbs processing this information. “That’s impossible. People don’t… shrink.”
“I wish that were so.” He lays the back of his hand on the floor in front of me. “Please let me hold you.”
If he’s my husband of thirty years, I must’ve been in his arms before. And if he’s left notes anticipating and guiding my every move, he must care about me.
“Trust me,” he pleads. “I’d never hurt you, Lil.”
I anxiously crawl aboard the cushioned seat he forms for me and signal him with a tentative thumbs-up. He holds his hand as still as he can, but even the littlest twitch shakes me. Clutching my knees to my chest, I pray something jogs my memory, but sitting in his enormous hand is so strange that nothing about him seems to stick.
His skin is more leathery than I’d expect. His appearance differs from the photographs. His voice may be deeper to my smaller ears. Wanting to remember something—anything—about him, I lie back and take a deep breath.
It’s not his sound, sight, or touch that suddenly floods me with memories. It’s his smell—a mixture of his natural bodily fragrance and shaving cream. Sitting beside him, nuzzling his chin. Kissing his neck. His hands on my face.
Tears trickle down my cheek as I look up and grin. “Freddie? Is that you?”
A large droplet of water splashes at my feet, and I taste its saltiness. Freddie’s crying too. I get on my knees and reach for him, wanting to console him. He delicately lifts me to his face, where I stroke his chin. It’s noticeably smooth, without a hint of stubble, and his scent is intoxicating.
With a catch in my throat, I ask, “What happened?”
Instead of answering, he sobs. I watch him wince when a joint or two cracks as he stands, but his support for me never wavers. I settle into his contours—a perfect fit—as he brings me to the kitchen and gently sets me down on a bed of paper inside a pink shoebox.
There are hundreds of notes, in a rainbow of colors, haphazardly stacked and stuck together. Their adhesive isn’t very strong, but I’m too weak to pull any apart, so he reads them to me.
Osteoporosis, hormone replacement therapy, and previously undiagnosed genetic disorders explain the cause, but I’d rather not dwell on that.
I roll my eyes at Barbie’s got nothing on you, doll.
Precious gifts come in small packages makes me blush.
I giggle at Size doesn’t matter.
Wanna ride in my shirt pocket? becomes an enticing invitation.
Each note has a story, and I listen intently as he chronicles our marriage, carrying me from the shoebox to the sink for a shower, and to the counter to confirm I’m four inches tall today, down an eighth inch from yesterday. Even with the bad news, I cherish being close to him.
Our day ends in his favorite chair. I lie on his chest while he reclines, watching video of our wedding on the distant television and from our last vacation on his much closer smartphone. My whole life flies by before my eyes, and I’m grateful that every day he does whatever he can to help me remember.
He caresses my splayed hair as I drift to sleep, the warmth radiating from his heart beating underneath me. I don’t question how many night have ended this way, because I want to savor the moment. I fear I’ll forget it—and his unconditional love for me—before I wake tomorrow.
The last thing I recall is his gentle whisper. “Good night, Lil.”