Chapter4
1018 Words
The rain had stopped by evening, but the house still felt wet somehow. Like it had soaked the storm into its bones and wasn’t quite ready to let it go.
Amira had finished her tasks for the day polishing brass door handles, organizing letters she wasn’t allowed to read, pretending not to hear hushed arguments in rooms that went silent when she passed. The maid's hand trembled as she adjusted Amira’s bedsheets, eyes darting toward the hallway. “Lights out by eleven,” she murmured, voice barely above breath. “And whatever you do, don’t linger past midnight.”
Amira frowned. “Why?”
The maid’s lips twitched, like she wanted to speak but thought better. She only leaned closer. “The house... changes. Sounds walk where feet shouldn’t. Doors you never opened will open for you.”
She straightened abruptly, smoothing her apron. “Goodnight, Miss.”
And just like that, she was gone leaving behind a silence that felt watched.
Nora had said she could rest, but her body didn’t know how. Resting felt too much like waiting. And she didn’t know what for.
So she wandered.
The hallway on the second floor curved like a spine, each door tucked into the wall like a rib. The wallpaper had faded into a deep gold over time, curling at the edges like old paper, and the carpet beneath her feet swallowed her footsteps.
There was a door that hadn’t been mentioned. Unlabeled, not locked, just… closed. She hadn’t noticed it before probably because most of her focus had been avoiding the West Wing. But now, the quiet beckoned.
Her fingers hesitated at the knob, cold brass under her skin. Just a quick look, she told herself. Just a peek. No one had said this door was off-limits. And if they had… well, maybe that’s exactly why it needed opening.
She turned the handle.
The room inside was dim. No windows, no electricity just the sleepy glow of late dusk leaking in from a c***k under the door behind her. It smelled like dust and wood and something older linen sealed in a cedar chest. Forgotten air.
It looked like a study. Smaller than Grayson’s, more personal. A worn desk sat under a crooked painting, the chair slightly askew, like someone had just stepped away decades ago and never returned. A bookshelf lined the far wall, bowed from the weight of hardbound journals and yellowing albums.
Something pulled her toward the shelf.
She traced her finger along the spine of an old photo album. The leather binding had peeled back in places, and the gold leaf faded into whispers. She pulled it free, careful not to let the brittle cover crumble, and carried it to the desk where the light was faintest.
The first page was blank.
The second, too.
And then faces.
Sepia-toned, delicate. A woman in a wide-brimmed hat holding a parasol, eyes sharp even in stillness. A man in suspenders and a stiff collar, standing beside a boy with a fox’s smile. The photos weren’t labeled. No dates. No names.
Just faces. Posed, polished, yet lonely in their way.
She flipped carefully, each page whispering secrets.
Then she stopped.
It was the fourth page.
A single photograph sat in the center. Smaller than the rest. Torn at the corners, as if someone had tried to remove it once and changed their mind halfway through.
And the woman in it
Amira’s breath caught.
She blinked.
No. No, not quite
But yes.
It was her.
Or it could’ve been. The same jawline. The same full lips. The same dark hair pinned back loosely, curls falling around her ears in the same careless way Amira’s did when she wasn’t trying. The woman’s eyes were cast to the side soft, thoughtful but something about them felt… familiar.
Amira leaned closer, as if the details might explain themselves if she just looked hard enough.
The woman stood in front of the very estate Amira now lived in, though the trees were younger, the ivy less greedy. She wore a long, pale dress that gathered at the waist and gloves that made her look both delicate and guarded. And in her arms, loosely clutched, was a book.
No smile.
No context.
Just this uncanny reflection like the past had left a breadcrumb, and Amira had stepped right into it.
She touched the photograph lightly.
And something strange happened.
Her chest ached not like pain, but like memory. Like déjà vu, but heavier. Her fingers trembled, though the room was warm.
“Who are you?” she whispered.
But the woman in the photo didn’t answer. She just looked away, frozen in a moment someone had once tried to keep, and nearly succeeded in forgetting.
Amira stared at the photo for a long time. Questions rolled through her like thunder under skin.
Why does she look like me?
Is she family?
Was she a servant? A guest? A prisoner?
And then came the worst question, the one she didn’t want to say out loud.
Is this why I was brought here?
She stood slowly, the album still in her hands, pulse crawling beneath her skin.
This wasn’t a coincidence. Not anymore.
There had been too many almosts.
The way Grayson had stared. The way Lady Ashcroft had stiffened at her name. The rules that didn’t make sense. The warning about staying away from Grayson as if touching him might unlock something they were all trying to keep sealed.
She wasn’t just anyone who’d come looking for work.
She was connected to this place. Somehow. Somewhere deep.
And now… she had proof. Even if she didn’t know what it meant yet.
She took one last look at the photo, then closed the album gently, like tucking a child into bed. She didn’t take it with her. Not yet. She had the face burned into her mind now. She couldn’t unsee it if she tried.
As she left the room, closing the door softly behind her, she heard it again that soundless, heavy silence this house seemed to wear like perfume.
- Writer
