The door had always been there—painted the same color as the hallway, flat and quiet like it wanted to be forgotten.
Kanya stood in front of it now, key in hand, heartbeat loud in her throat.
Her mother had warned her never to open it.
"That room isn't for you," she used to say."Some things are better left closed."
But Mae was dead now. The locks had rusted, and the secrets had waited long enough.
The key clicked.
The door didn't creak—it gave way like it had been expecting her.
The first thing that hit her was the smell. Not decay, not mold. Something sterile. Preserved.Like a hospital room that had never been cleaned out.
Inside, the walls were covered in newspaper clippings, old photographs, and pages torn from journals. Every surface was filled—floor to ceiling—with documentation. Of what, she couldn't yet tell.
She stepped forward.
There was a child's bed in the corner. Too small. Untouched. The dust formed a perfect outline around it, like a memory someone was trying too hard to keep in shape.
And there were two framed photographs on the wall. One was of her. The other was of a girl that looked almost like her.
But not quite.
Her eyes scanned the clippings.
Missing. 1998.Six-year-old girl disappears from temple fair.No leads. No witnesses. Name: Kanya Rattanachai.
She blinked. No. That couldn't be right.
She looked at the article again. Looked at the date.It was the year she turned six.
But she'd never gone missing. She remembered her sixth birthday. Cake. The gold dress. The smell of fried bananas in the kitchen.
Didn't she?
Her head spun.
On the back of the door, something was scrawled in red marker:
IF YOU REMEMBER, IT'S A LIE.
She stumbled out of the room and slammed the door shut behind her.
Breathing heavy.
Hands shaking.
Was she someone else?
Was that the reason Mae never let her ask questions?
And worse—was that the reason her brother always looked at her like a stranger?