Whispers of the Old House

Maryam stared at the signature on the letter as if it might change. Arash. But it couldn’t be. Arash had entered her life just a few months ago—gentle, quiet, enigmatic. He owned the antique shop at the corner of the old bazaar. He wasn’t supposed to be a part of her past. She reread the letter, this time more slowly. "My dear Farzaneh, Whatever happens, never tell Maryam. She must not know the truth about her father. It's safer this way—for her, and everyone." – Arash Her father? A chill ran down her spine. Her mother had always said her father died in an accident, young, barely thirty. No name, no photo, no story. Maryam’s hands trembled. She dropped the letter back into the chest and stepped away, heart pounding. Suddenly, a floorboard creaked behind her. She turned fast—nothing. Just silence. She climbed the stairs quickly, closing the basement door behind her with shaking fingers. Back in the living room, she sat again. The envelope still lay on the coffee table. She picked it up, searching it for clues—postmark, handwriting, scent. Nothing. Then she noticed something inside the envelope she hadn’t seen before. A second, smaller piece of paper was tucked deep in the corner. She pulled it out and unfolded it. There were only three words. “He is watching.”