The brush slid gently through Elara's hair, each stroke slow and deliberate, as if the maid feared that haste might shatter her thoughts. Outside, the wind traced soft, wandering fingers against the glass panes—tapping, retreating, tapping again—like a secret too shy to speak aloud.
The room held its silence, save for the whisper of fabric and the faint, rhythmic creak of the wooden floor beneath the maid's careful steps.
But Elara's gaze wasn't caught by the reflection in the mirror before her.
It kept drifting—pulled, unwillingly yet inevitably—toward the third door.
Plain. Silent.
A door with no memory.
Always closed.
Her lips parted once, closed again. The question sat on her tongue like something fragile. Finally, she let it slip—her voice barely more than breath:
"Did someone live here before me?"
The brush stilled mid-stroke. A pause so small it might have been imagined—except for the way the maid's fingers tightened ever so slightly in Elara's hair.
"I… I don't know, Your Grace," the maid murmured. "I was told this room was opened for you. No one has stayed in it for… a long time."
Elara's eyes slid back to the mirror, though she wasn't looking at herself.
"And that door?"
She didn't need to say which one.
The maid's gaze flickered—just once—toward it. Her voice fell lower.
"It's always been that way. Locked. I don't think it opens."
Elara didn't push further. The tension in the girl's shoulders was enough to see that even curiosity had limits here.
The brush moved again, lighter now, as if trying to erase the question. Then the maid added, almost as if compelled:
"The Duke himself chose this room for you."
A beat.
And then, quickly, as if afraid she had already said too much:
"If Your Grace would excuse me, I'll prepare your supper."
Her curtsy was neat, but her retreat was almost a flight.
The door shut softly behind her, leaving Elara alone with the quiet.
---
Night deepened.
The fire had burned low, its glow retreating into embers. Shadows stretched across the walls, thin and reaching, like fingers searching for something they could not find. Elara lay in bed, drifting at the edge of sleep.
The manor sighed around her—the slow, tired creak of beams settling, the faint breath of the wind through old stone.
Then—
A faint click.
Her eyes opened.
It wasn't loud. Not hurried. Just… precise. Like the sound of something moving exactly where it shouldn't.
She sat up, the blanket sliding from her shoulders. Her gaze found the third door. Still shut. Still as it had always been.
But something had changed.
Barefoot, she crossed the cold floor, each step slow, measured. Moonlight spilled in from the window, brushing a pale path toward that silent door.
At its base, a small folded slip of paper rested against the wood.
She crouched, picked it up between careful fingers.
No seal. No mark. Just the paper's quiet weight.
She unfolded it.
Six words.
You were not supposed to ask.
Her breath stilled.
No name. No explanation. Just that—like a whisper that had escaped the walls themselves.
Her eyes lifted to the door again.
Moonlight edged the floorboards beneath it, painting a thin silver line—like a boundary, like a dare.
A thought formed in her mind. Quiet. Steady.
Then who was I supposed to?
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See you in the shadows…
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