The day moved slowly. Emma kept herself busy, but the weight of the key in her pocket was a constant reminder. Every time she touched it, she felt a spark of curiosity mixed with unease.
By evening, the house had grown quiet again. The shadows stretched across the walls, and the air felt still. Emma stood in the hallway, staring at the locked door. She could hear her own heartbeat.
She took the key from her pocket. Her fingers trembled as she slid it into the keyhole. It fit perfectly.
For a moment, she hesitated. What if opening it was a mistake? What if the truth waiting behind it was worse than the mystery?
She turned the key. The lock clicked, loud in the silence. Slowly, she pushed the door open.
The smell hit her first—dust and something faintly sweet, like old flowers. Moonlight spilled into the room through a tall, narrow window. Everything was covered in white sheets, shapes of furniture hidden underneath.
Emma stepped inside, the floor creaking under her feet. She pulled one of the sheets away, revealing a small writing desk. On it sat a wooden box with a brass latch.
Her hand hovered over it, but before she could open it, she heard that same whisper again—soft, almost too quiet to catch. It came from somewhere deeper in the room.
Emma's breath caught. She turned toward the sound.