The house grew quiet after that night.
Not peaceful—just quiet.
The mirrors remained covered.
The clocks never chimed again.
The footsteps in the halls faded.
But the door—the one in Elinea's room—the wardrobe that had never truly been locked—
It remained slightly open.
Some say she left the house.
Some say they saw her walking through the garden at dawn, her steps light, her face turned toward something unseen.
Others say she never left.
That the house absorbed her, as it always does with those who remember.
The boy's whispers softened over time, folding into the walls, into the dust, into the stillness of the rooms.
But sometimes—just sometimes—when the windows are cracked open on a quiet night, if you listen carefully,
you can still hear her.
Not the boy.
Her.
Calling softly through the halls.
> "I'm here."
> "I didn't forget.
The woman continued her quiet routines.
New visitors came.
Some stayed.
Some left.
Some never found the door.
And each time, the same rules were whispered.
"Room at the end. Keep the curtains closed.
If you hear footsteps outside your door—do not open it."
But the last rule was never written.
The one Elinea left behind.
The one no one told the next guests.
> Some doors never close. Not really. Not forever.
> And some promises stay—long after you've forgotten you made them.
The house waits.
It always waits.