The brass key felt heavier than it looked.
Elinea turned it in her palm, watching the light catch its dull surface. No tag. No explanation. Just a key and a warning.
She placed it carefully into the desk drawer, unsure if she should ever use it.
The hallway outside was empty when she opened the door.
No one stood waiting. No footsteps echoed. But there was something—an after-sense, like the air had only just settled.
She followed the corridor to the dining room. The walls felt taller than yesterday. Or maybe her nerves were just quieter now, letting her notice things she hadn't before.
At the long table, breakfast was already served.
A single plate. A single chair.
No cutlery.
The woman from before stood at the far end of the room, partially hidden in shadow. Pale hands clasped in front of her, unmoving.
"You're on time," she said, without looking directly at Elinea. "Most aren't."
Elinea sat. The tea was lukewarm. The bread dry.
"I found a key," she said cautiously.
"You were meant to."
"What's it for?"
"If you knew, you'd already regret it."
Elinea lowered her gaze, unsure if she should ask more.
But silence didn't feel safe here either.
"Do you work for the madam?" she tried.
The woman's eyes met hers now — sharply, directly.
"I work for the house."
There was something final in the way she said it.
Later, Elinea was handed a crumpled paper of daily tasks:
Dust the west library
Wipe down all mirrors (except those covered)
Inspect curtains in the south gallery
Never touch the clocks
Never cross the third floor
Never mention the east wing
Each rule felt more like a warning.
The west library was still as a tomb.
The books there had the smell of rot and candlewax. She touched none of them. Only the surfaces.
Even the dust seemed strange—too thick, too still.
She reached for a window latch to let in air, but paused.
There were no birds outside.
No sound. No wind. Just the garden below, and beyond it… the eastern wing.
It looked newer. Cleaner. Yet the windows were all dark.
No curtains. No light.
Like the house itself had abandoned that side.
In the gallery, she caught her reflection in a tall, gold-framed mirror.
For a moment, she could've sworn someone else stood behind her.
A boy.
Slim, unmoving, watching her through the glass.
But when she turned, the hallway was empty.
She looked back. The mirror was cracked.
And she hadn't done that.
That night, a second note appeared.
No footsteps this time. Just the paper slipped halfway under the door.
"The house listens. The east wing doesn't forget."
Elinea felt the weight of the brass key again from the drawer.
And something else...
A whisper — so soft it could've been the wind.
Or her name.
"Elinea…"
Her hand hovered near the lock.
But she didn't turn it.
Not yet.