Elinea hardly slept.
Even when her body begged for rest, her ears stayed awake—listening, waiting. The house was quiet, but not in a peaceful way.
It was the kind of quiet that felt like something had paused, waiting for you to move first.
When morning came, another note was waiting under her door.
"You may now clean the second floor. Do not open the fourth door."
There was no signature. No explanation.
But the key in her drawer—still warm, as if it hadn't been alone all night—felt suddenly heavier.
She passed the first three doors easily.
One led to a storage room.
The second, to a locked wardrobe with dust-covered boxes.
The third, to a windowless chamber lined with covered mirrors.
The fourth door stood slightly ajar.
Something cold brushed her spine.
She should have passed it by. The note was clear. The rules were clear.
But she paused.
Inside, it smelled faintly of lavender and smoke, like perfume trying to cover something older.
There was a music box on a table near the far wall, its lid half-open.
And next to it, another note.
"This is not your door."
Her hand trembled as she stepped back, pulling the door gently until it clicked shut.
In the library that afternoon, she caught sight of him again.
The boy.
Just the corner of his coat, disappearing between the tall shelves.
She called out softly. No answer.
But there was a quiet dragging sound, like something being pulled along the carpet, fading into the next room.
Elinea followed carefully.
When she turned the corner, she found nothing but a brass key lying on the floor.
It was not the same key as before.
This one had a delicate chain attached, as if meant to be worn.
She slipped it into her pocket, unsure if it had been a trap or a message.
That evening, at the long dining table, the woman finally spoke again.
"You saw him."
It wasn't a question.
"Who is he?" Elinea asked carefully.
The woman's lips parted, but no answer came. She simply shook her head.
"The house remembers you now," the woman whispered instead. "Be careful where you step. It's not all built of walls."
Elinea wanted to ask more, but a sharp clanging cut through the room—three loud chimes from the clock.
The woman disappeared down the hall without another word.
Back in her room, the second key burned against her skin.
Another note had appeared under her door.
"Do not unlock what watches you."
She crossed to the window and pulled back the curtain for the first time.
There, across the garden, in the dark windows of the east wing—
A pale face stared back.
The boy. Watching. Waiting.
And then the candle behind him blew out.
The window was empty.
And the house whispered something she almost understood.
Almost.