Behind the door

Shadow of the past

Chapter 3 - Shadows Of The Past

The storm continued through the night, rattling the shutters and tapping at the windows like insistent fingers. Elena sat curled on the velvet armchair in the living room, the mysterious note lying on the table beside her. The white rose seemed to glow faintly in the dim lamplight, too perfect, too deliberate.

Sleep would not come. Her mind buzzed with questions. Who left it? How did they know she was coming back? And Adrian—why had his eyes flicked toward the piano, almost as if he expected the rose to be there?

At last, unable to fight her restlessness, Elena rose and began wandering the house. The wooden floors creaked beneath her bare feet as she moved from room to room, running her fingers across dusty picture frames and forgotten shelves.

In the hallway upstairs, she stopped at a large painting of her grandmother, Margaret Marlowe. The artist had captured her strength—her sharp cheekbones, her dignified eyes—but there was also a sadness there, a heaviness Elena hadn’t noticed as a child.

“Grandmother,” she whispered, her throat tight. “What did you leave behind?”

Her answer came in silence… until she noticed something. The bottom corner of the frame bore faint scratches, almost as if someone had tried to pry it open. Heart racing, Elena tugged at the edge, and to her astonishment, the frame swung outward on hidden hinges.

Behind it, embedded into the wall, was a shallow compartment. Inside lay an old leather-bound journal, its cover cracked with age.

Her hands trembled as she opened it. The first page bore her grandmother’s elegant handwriting:

“To whoever finds this… forgive the truths I could not speak aloud.”

Elena sank down onto the hallway floor, turning the pages carefully. The entries began innocently—daily notes about the garden, neighbors, her love for Elena. But then the tone shifted.

“They are watching again. I see him across the street at night, the man with gray eyes. He pretends kindness, but he knows too much. Secrets are dangerous in Rosewood.”

Elena froze. Gray eyes. Her breath caught. Could her grandmother have meant Adrian? But that was impossible—this journal had to be at least six years old, maybe older. How could it describe him so clearly?

Before she could read more, a sound downstairs made her heart leap. A faint creak, like a door opening.

Elena closed the journal quickly, clutching it to her chest. She listened. Silence. Then—the soft thud of footsteps.

Her pulse hammered in her ears. She moved cautiously down the staircase, careful not to make a sound. The living room was dim, the lamplight flickering. And then she saw him.

Adrian Cole stood near the piano, his coat dripping rainwater onto the wooden floor. He hadn’t noticed her yet; his eyes were fixed on the rose, his hand hovering just above it.

“What are you doing in my house?” Elena’s voice cracked the silence, firm despite the fear trembling inside her.

Adrian looked up, startled but not guilty. Slowly, he lowered his hand. “I knocked. You didn’t answer. I thought…” His eyes flicked toward the rose. “I thought you shouldn’t be alone.”

“You came inside without permission,” she shot back, hugging the journal tighter against her side.

His gaze lingered on her for a long moment, unreadable, then softened. “You’re right. I overstepped.” He stepped back, his hands raised slightly in surrender. “But Elena, you need to understand… that note wasn’t a joke. There are things about this house—about your family—you don’t know.”

Elena’s chest tightened. “And you do?”

Adrian’s jaw tensed, as though he weighed his words carefully. Finally, he said, “Let’s just say… some secrets don’t stay buried forever.”

Then, before she could demand more, he turned and walked out into the storm, leaving the door swinging wide open behind him.

Elena stood there in the flickering light, the journal pressed tightly to her chest, her heart in turmoil.

The rose still sat on the piano, innocent and unyielding. But in her gut, Elena knew—it was only the first warning.