Behind the door

Chapter One – The Return The rain fell in soft sheets over the sleepy town of Rosewood, painting the streets in silver reflections. It had been six years since Elena Marlowe last saw the place she once called home. The taxi slowed as it turned onto the cobblestone road leading to her grandmother’s old house, now hers by inheritance. Elena pressed her forehead lightly against the glass, heart thudding. The familiar scent of wet earth and pine drifted through the cracked window. Memories rushed back—the summers she spent reading in the garden, the laughter of her grandmother echoing in the halls, and the whispered arguments of her parents before they moved away for good. Now, everything looked smaller, quieter… haunted. The driver cleared his throat. “First time back in a while?” he asked, his voice cutting through her thoughts. “Yes,” Elena murmured. “Too long.” When the car stopped, she stepped out, suitcase in hand. The house stood tall and proud despite the years of neglect. Its white paint had faded, the shutters hung loosely, and vines crawled up the stone walls. Yet, there was something magnetic about it—like it was waiting for her return. Inside, the air smelled of dust and lavender, her grandmother’s favorite. Elena trailed her fingers across the wooden banister, surprised at how sturdy it still felt. She should have felt at peace, but instead, unease prickled her skin. That’s when she saw it. On the grand piano in the living room sat a single white rose, fresh, its petals unblemished. A small folded note lay beneath it. Her pulse quickened as she opened it. In neat handwriting, it read: “Some secrets never die. Welcome home, Elena.” Her throat went dry. Who knew she was coming back? She hadn’t told anyone—not even her old friends. Before she could think further, a soft knock sounded at the door. Elena jumped, clutching the note in her hand. She approached cautiously and opened it to find a man standing in the drizzle. He was tall, dressed in a dark coat, his damp hair falling across his forehead. His eyes—deep, stormy gray—met hers with quiet intensity. “Sorry to intrude,” he said smoothly, “I saw the lights on. You must be Elena.” She hesitated. “Yes… and you are?” A faint smile curved his lips. “Adrian Cole. I live across the street. Welcome back to Rosewood.” There was something disarming about his gaze, something that made her heartbeat falter. But behind the warmth, Elena sensed a shadow—as though Adrian knew more than he let on. And just like that, the story began.