The morning mist hung low over Thornridge as Amara pulled open the heavy French doors leading to the back garden. The air was sharp and earthy, with a hint of roses clinging to the fog — wild and untamed, like everything else about the manor.
She stepped out slowly, her boots brushing against weeds that had claimed the once-pristine path. The gardens had always been her mother's sanctuary — the one place where peace still bloomed, no matter the chaos in the world. Seeing it now in ruin felt like looking into a mirror of her own soul.
It was hard to reconcile her memories with this place. Once, it had been vibrant: bees buzzing over lavender bushes, soft jazz spilling from the parlor window, her mother's laughter like a bell in the breeze. Now, silence reigned. The garden was tangled and wild, overtaken by vines and years of neglect.
Amara crouched near a stone bench half-swallowed by moss. She brushed away the leaves and froze.
There, etched faintly into the stone, was her mother's name: Selene. Beneath it, a carving of a small crescent moon. She traced the curve with her fingers, her breath catching in her throat.
"She used to sit there every afternoon," a voice said behind her.
Startled, Amara turned to find Margot standing a few feet away, a wicker basket tucked under her arm. The housekeeper's gaze was distant, almost... haunted.
"She said the sunlight helped her think. Always brought a notebook. Said her dreams were clearer here."
Amara swallowed the lump in her throat. "Did you know her well?"
Margot hesitated, eyes narrowing. "I worked here back then, yes. Everyone knew Selene. Kind. Smart. Too trusting."
That last part landed with weight. Amara stood, brushing off her hands. "What do you mean?"
But Margot simply turned away. "Breakfast will be ready in ten minutes."
Amara stared after her. The woman's clipped tone hadn't masked the fear in her eyes. She knew something. Something about her mother. Something she didn't want to say — at least not yet.
Turning back to the bench, Amara sat and let her thoughts drift. From this spot, the house loomed like a beast behind her, silent and brooding. The windows were like eyes, watching. And for a moment, Amara wondered if her mother's ghost still lingered here, hiding behind roses and secrets.
As she sat there, a rustling in the bushes nearby made her jump.
"Hello?" she called, rising to her feet.
Nothing.
Her hand instinctively moved to the phone in her pocket, but she didn't dial. Maybe it was a rabbit. Or a bird. Or maybe…
"Stop it," she whispered to herself. "Don't turn paranoid."
But then she noticed something odd. A trail. Barely visible, half-hidden under ivy and stone — but it was there. Leading away from the bench and curving behind the overgrown hedges.
Curiosity overtook her fear. Carefully, Amara followed the path. The air grew cooler, heavier. Each step felt like a descent into something forgotten.
The trail led her to a small greenhouse — or what remained of one. Its glass walls were cracked, the roof half-collapsed, and inside, ferns and vines clawed at every surface. She hadn't known this place existed. It wasn't in her memories.
She pushed the creaky door open.
Inside, the air was thick and humid, the silence almost suffocating. Broken pottery lay on the floor, along with torn gardening gloves and scattered journals. She bent down, picking one up.
Her heart stopped.
The handwriting.
It was her mother's.
Excerpt from the journal:
"He told me not to ask questions. But how can I stay quiet when the shadows are getting closer? Something is wrong with this house. With him. With all of it…"
Amara's fingers trembled as she turned the page.
"I'm being watched. I know it. And I think… I think it's because I found the locked room."
A chill raced down Amara's spine.
The locked room.
She'd seen it yesterday — a heavy wooden door at the end of the west wing hallway, sealed tight with no handle. She hadn't thought much of it then.
But now...
Amara clutched the journal tightly, heart racing.
Her mother had found something. Something dangerous. Something someone didn't want her to know.
And someone — perhaps the same person — might now know Amara had found her journal.
Suddenly, this wasn't just a visit. This was a trap.