Behind the door

Welcome back Elena

Chapter 2 - The return

The rain fell in soft sheets over the sleepy town of Rosewood, painting the narrow streets in silver reflections. Streetlamps glowed faintly through the mist, casting golden halos on the cobblestones. The town was quiet—too quiet for a place once alive with laughter and music.

In the back seat of the taxi, Elena Marlowe pressed her forehead lightly against the window. Her eyes scanned the familiar streets as if trying to reconcile them with her memories. Six years. That’s how long it had been since she last saw Rosewood. Since she had promised herself she would never come back.

The driver glanced at her through the rearview mirror. “First time back in a while?” he asked casually, his voice cutting through the steady patter of rain.

Elena’s lips curved into a faint, almost wistful smile. “Yes. Too long.”

But she didn’t tell him the whole truth—that she had sworn never to return after her parents’ sudden departure, after the whispers that haunted her family’s name, after the night she had heard her grandmother crying alone in this very house.

The car slowed as it turned onto the old cobblestone road that led to Marlowe House. Her chest tightened. The house loomed in the distance like a silent sentinel, its windows glowing faintly in the storm, waiting.

When the taxi stopped, Elena stepped out, suitcase in hand. The chill of the evening wrapped around her, carrying with it the earthy scent of pine and rain. She stood there for a long moment, staring at the house.

It was both familiar and alien. Its white paint had faded, the shutters hung loosely, and ivy crept boldly up the stone walls. Yet, there was a stubborn kind of pride in its posture, as though the house itself had endured grief, silence, and secrets, and now dared her to face them.

She pushed open the creaking front door, and the scent of lavender drifted out to greet her. Her grandmother’s favorite. Elena paused, breath caught in her throat. It was as if time hadn’t touched the place.

Inside, dust floated like ghosts in the air. She ran her hand along the wooden banister, surprised at its solidity, and walked slowly through the hall.

Memories pressed down on her. Summers spent lying in the garden reading fairytales. Her grandmother humming lullabies as she brushed Elena’s hair. And darker memories too—raised voices at night, her parents arguing, the sharp sound of glass breaking, her grandmother’s whispered plea: “Hush now, Elena. Some things are better left unsaid.”

Her steps carried her into the living room, where the grand piano sat like a relic. Its keys were yellowed with age. But what froze her in place was not the piano itself.

It was the white rose sitting on top of it. Fresh. Untouched by dust.

A small folded note lay beneath it. Elena’s pulse quickened as she reached for it. The paper trembled slightly in her hands as she unfolded it.

In neat, deliberate handwriting, the words read:

“Some secrets never die. Welcome home, Elena.”

Her throat went dry. She hadn’t told anyone she was coming back. Not her colleagues in London, not even her childhood friends. Who could have known?

Before she could think further, a knock echoed through the house.

She froze, the note still clutched tightly in her hand. The sound came again, soft but firm, against the heavy wooden door.

Slowly, cautiously, she approached and opened it.

A man stood on the porch, rain dripping from the shoulders of his dark coat. His hair, damp from the drizzle, framed a strong face with storm-gray eyes that seemed to pierce straight through her.

“Sorry to intrude,” he said smoothly, his voice calm, steady. “I saw the lights on. You must be Elena.”

She hesitated, tightening her grip on the doorframe. “Yes… and you are?”

“Adrian Cole. I live across the street.” He offered a polite smile, though his eyes remained unreadable. “Welcome back to Rosewood.”

For a moment, Elena didn’t know what to say. His presence felt disarming, like the quiet before a storm. She noticed the way he studied her—not rudely, but with a familiarity she couldn’t quite place, as though he already knew who she was beyond her name.

“I didn’t realize anyone lived across the street anymore,” Elena said carefully.

Adrian’s lips curved faintly. “Not many stayed. The town’s quieter these days. But some of us never left.”

His gaze flicked briefly toward the piano inside the house, then back at her. The look was so quick Elena almost thought she imagined it.

“You must be tired from your journey,” Adrian continued. “If you need anything—supplies, directions—don’t hesitate to ask. Rosewood can be… difficult for those who return.”

Elena felt a shiver that had nothing to do with the rain. There was something in his words—an unspoken warning wrapped in courtesy.

“Thank you,” she managed, her voice soft but steady.

Adrian dipped his head slightly in acknowledgment, then stepped back into the misty rain. “Goodnight, Elena.”

She closed the door slowly, her heart hammering. When she turned back, her eyes fell once more on the piano, the rose, and the chilling note.

The house whispered around her, and in the silence, she felt it—this was only the beginning.