Morning came with a light mist outside the window. The trees looked pale and far away. Emma stood in the kitchen, holding a chipped mug of coffee. It had been her grandmother's mug, the same one she remembered from childhood.
After breakfast, she decided to walk through the house. There were so many rooms, and most of them she had not entered yet. Some were dusty and smelled of old wood. Others were locked. The walls held faded photographs, and boxes sat quietly in the corners.
Upstairs, at the very end of the hallway, she noticed a door she hadn't seen before. Its paint was cracked, and the brass handle had turned dark. She tried turning it, but it didn't move. She pushed harder, but it stayed locked.
She bent down to look through the keyhole, but it was too dark to see. Pressing her ear to the wood, she thought she heard a faint sound—like paper moving, or fabric shifting. She quickly stepped back, telling herself it was nothing.
Near the door was a small cabinet, left slightly open. Inside, she found old tools and a ring of keys. She tried them one at a time. Each one rattled in the lock but refused to turn. The last key was small and had a delicate pattern carved into it. When she slid it into the lock, it turned halfway before stopping. She tried to force it, but there was a snap, and half the key broke off in her hand.
Emma stood there for a moment, holding the broken piece. The door was still locked, and now there was no way to open it. She turned to leave, but her eyes kept going back to it.
Something about that door didn't feel like the others. It wasn't just locked—it was keeping something hidden.