Behind the door

The shadow

Chapter 4 - Shadow Of The Past

The storm raged through the night, as if Rosewood itself was trying to keep her awake. Elena sat curled in the velvet armchair, staring at the piano and the white rose, her grandmother’s journal pressed tightly to her chest. Sleep teased the edges of her mind but never came.

Finally, she lit a candle and carried it upstairs. The flickering flame painted the hallways in trembling shadows as she opened the journal once more.

The next entry chilled her blood:

“Elena is too young to understand. She sees only kindness where I see danger. The man across the street lingers, watching. His questions are always polite, but there’s weight behind them. He knows things he shouldn’t—about the Marlowe name, about the past I swore to bury.”

Elena’s lips parted. She flipped further.

“If she ever finds this journal, I pray she will be strong enough to face the truth. Secrets are the marrow of Rosewood, but some are heavy enough to break bone.”

Her hands trembled. Who had her grandmother feared? Could it really have been Adrian—or someone before him?

The candlelight flickered, and she glanced up, heart pounding, half-expecting to see those gray eyes watching her from the hallway. Nothing. Just shadows and silence.

But as she tucked the journal under her arm, she noticed something odd about the far end of the corridor. A door—plain, wooden, and painted the same color as the wall—barely visible unless you knew where to look. She didn’t remember it from childhood.

Compelled by a mix of dread and curiosity, she crossed the hall and tried the handle. It rattled but didn’t turn. Locked.

Elena pressed her ear against it. For a moment, she thought she heard something on the other side—like the faint rustle of fabric or a sigh carried on the wind. She stumbled back, clutching her candle tighter.

That was when the creak downstairs pulled her attention.

Her stomach dropped. Someone was in the house.

She moved quickly, careful not to let the candle blow out as she descended the stairs. The living room came into view, and her heart lurched.

Adrian Cole stood near the piano. The lamplight carved shadows across his face, making his eyes seem darker, more dangerous. His hand hovered just above the white rose, as if drawn to it.

“What are you doing in my house?” Elena’s voice cut through the silence.

Adrian turned, his expression unreadable. He lowered his hand slowly, as though he’d been caught in something forbidden.

“I knocked,” he said evenly. “You didn’t answer. The door was unlocked. I thought—” His gaze flicked again to the rose. “I thought you might need someone here.”

Elena hugged the journal closer to her side, its leather edges digging into her palm. “So you just walk in uninvited?”

For a heartbeat, tension stretched between them. Then Adrian raised his hands slightly, palms open, like a man showing he had no weapon. “You’re right. I overstepped. But Elena, listen to me…” His voice dropped lower, steady but edged with something that felt like urgency. “That note—it isn’t just a prank. This house… your family… there are things you don’t know.”

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

His jaw tensed, his storm-gray eyes flashing. For a moment, she thought he might actually tell her. Instead, he exhaled slowly and said, “Some truths have a way of destroying everything around them. Be careful where you look, Elena. Some doors shouldn’t be opened.”

Her pulse spiked. Was he talking about the locked room? The journal? Or something else entirely?

“Why should I trust you?” she whispered, barely realizing she had spoken aloud.

Adrian stepped closer, stopping just a breath away. The candlelight trembled, painting his features in gold and shadow. “Because,” he said softly, almost like a confession, “I don’t want to see you hurt.”

For one dizzying moment, their eyes locked. Elena’s chest rose and fell with shallow breaths. There was something in his gaze—an intensity that wasn’t just mystery, but something more fragile. Something almost… tender.

And then, as if the spell shattered, he stepped back. “Goodnight, Elena.”

Without waiting for her reply, Adrian turned and slipped out into the storm. The door swung shut behind him, leaving only the echo of his presence.

Elena stood there in silence, the journal pressed tight against her chest, her heart torn between suspicion and the strange, undeniable pull she felt toward him.

When she finally returned upstairs, she paused at the locked door once more. Her grandmother’s warning echoed in her mind: “Some secrets never die.”

And yet, standing there in the flickering glow of her candle, Elena knew—she couldn’t resist the urge to find out what was hidden behind that door.