Jolene became something of a fixture in Larkspur House over the next week. She made a game of losing herself in the endless, twisty corridors, daring the house to surprise her. Portraits smiled or frowned in the shifting afternoon light. The kitchen always seemed to know when she was hungry, and Mr. Harrington had a habit of appearing at her elbow, offering tea before she even thought to ask.
One stormy afternoon, Jolene found herself in a wing she didn't remember seeing before. The air was thick, tinged with lavender and secrets. She paused before a set of double doors painted with lilies and pressed a palm against the wood. The doors creaked open, revealing a parlor frozen in time: velvet chairs, a grand harp, chess pieces still mid-game.
She was startled by Mr. Harrington's voice behind her. "Best not linger here too long, Miss Jolene. This room is... stubborn about letting guests leave."
She turned, suppressing a nervous laugh. "Are all the rooms in this house haunted?"
He considered. "Haunted? Perhaps. But more than that—remembered. This house keeps its memories close, and sometimes, when the wind is just right, it invites the past to dance."
Jolene nodded, unsure whether to be comforted or unsettled.
Mr. Harrington's gaze softened. "Just remember, some doors open only for you. And some should stay closed, even in dreams."
She wanted to ask what he meant, but the caretaker was already gone, a ghost among ghosts.
That night, Jolene lingered by her window, watching rain chase itself across the glass. The city sparkled below, careless and oblivious. She wondered, for the first time, what the mansion wanted from her—and if she was truly free to leave.