That night, the house refused to settle.
The wind pressed against the windows, slipping through cracks, carrying with it soft fragments of whispers that weren't entirely the wind's.
> "Elinea…"
His voice followed her now, not just in the hallways, but behind the walls, under the floorboards, inside the silence.
And the brass key on its delicate chain pulsed with a strange weight, as if it remembered something she didn't.
Sleep betrayed her.
When she finally drifted, it was shallow and broken, a restless cycle of half-dreams and cold awakenings.
In one such fragile moment, she heard the wardrobe creak.
Not loudly.
Just enough.
The nails, still firmly in place, had shifted—one slightly bent, as if from inside.
And on the floor beneath the wardrobe, another note had appeared.
> "The night hides answers. If you choose to see, do not look away."
Elinea waited until the house seemed most asleep—when the chimes had gone silent, when even the walls felt still.
Then she crept into the hall.
Past the covered mirrors.
Past the paintings that now seemed to follow her with blurred, accusing eyes.
To the door that was always locked.
The east wing.
The key in her hand felt heavier the closer she got.
The door, worn and cold, greeted her with the faint scent of lavender and something older—damp wood, trapped air.
The key slid into the lock with a soft click.
The door opened with almost no resistance.
The corridor beyond was narrow, the floor covered in thick, patterned rugs that muffled her steps.
The walls were lined with portraits, but all the faces had been scratched out.
She passed them quickly.
At the end of the hall, a room waited.
The boy was there.
Not a ghost.
Not a shadow.
A real boy, barefoot, his hair dark and untamed, his hands holding the edges of a tattered blanket.
His eyes met hers—not with fear, but with something worse.
> Loneliness.
> "I waited," he said softly.
> "Who are you?" she asked, her voice cracking.
> "I don't remember," he whispered. "But I remember you."
His words clung to her ribs, sharp and impossible.
> "We've met before?" she breathed.
He nodded once.
> "You just forgot."
He crossed the room, his feet silent on the floor, and pressed a cold brass key into her palm.
A third key.
> "What's this for?" she asked, her voice almost breaking.
> "For the door that doesn't lock."
His eyes flicked toward the wardrobe in her room.
> "If you want to help me, you'll use it tonight."
> "And if I don't?"
> "Then I'll stay here."
His voice faltered.
> "Alone. Again."
The wind slipped through the open window behind him, and just for a second, his outline shimmered, almost like he was part of the house itself.
And then—
He was gone.
Elinea returned to her room with the third key clutched tightly in her hand.
The wardrobe stood silently against the wall.
Waiting.
> "If you want to help me, you'll use it tonight."
Her pulse thudded in her throat.
The house whispered, as if it, too, was waiting for her choice.