“Esther,” he said after a long pause. “My daughter’s name was Esther, and she was four years old.”
The words seemed to scrape his throat raw as they came out. Maya lowered the tray, her own heart aching for him.
“She had your eyes,” Maya added.
Arthur’s face tightened with pain. For a second, she thought he might order her out of the house, but instead, he asked if she believed in ghosts. Maya thought of her grandmother’s oxygen machine in the dark, of memories that sat beside you in empty rooms, and of grief touching your shoulder when no one was there.
“Yes, I do,” she said, “but not always the kind that people usually mean.”
A faint, bitter smile appeared on his face and disappeared just as quickly.
“You speak like someone much older than you are,” he noted.
“And you sleep like someone afraid of his own dreams,” she countered.
The air went completely still as Maya realized she had gone too far. Arthur stood, the blanket dropped to the floor, and for one heartbeat, the old hardness returned to his face. Then, quietly, he told her to leave the tray and go. She obeyed.
At the door, he spoke again.
“Tomorrow morning, come here early,” he commanded.
Maya turned back to him.
“Why?” she asked.
His eyes moved toward the ceiling, toward the second floor, toward the locked room.
“Because I am finally opening a door,” he stated.
Maya slept poorly that night, and at dawn, she arrived while the sky over the city was still violet. Mrs. Gordon waited in the foyer, her face pale and anxious.
“Did he tell you what he plans to do?” Maya asked.
Mrs. Gordon nodded slowly.
“You do not have to go in there,” Mrs. Gordon warned.
“He asked me to be there,” Maya replied.
“That room has broken stronger people than you,” Mrs. Gordon whispered.
Maya glanced up the staircase toward the forbidden floor.
“Maybe they just tried to enter it alone,” Maya said.
Mrs. Gordon’s eyes softened for only a moment.
Arthur appeared at the top of the stairs, wearing no suit jacket, only a white shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms, and in his hand was the silver key. He did not greet them but walked to the end of the hallway, and Maya followed. Mrs. Gordon remained several steps behind, one hand pressed to her chest in agitation.
At the locked door, Arthur stopped and stared for a long time, while Maya heard his breathing shift as he prepared himself.
“You do not have to do this today,” she said.
His jaw tightened with resolve.
“Yes, I do,” he whispered.
The key slid into the lock, and the sound was small, but its effect was enormous, as the door opened with a soft, long sigh. Dust and the faint scent of lavender drifted out, and Maya stepped inside after him.
The room was a child’s bedroom, perfectly frozen in time, with pale yellow walls, white curtains, and shelves filled with picture books. A tiny pair of red shoes sat beside the wardrobe, and stuffed animals were arranged on the bed, waiting faithfully for a child who would never come back. On the pillow lay another wooden rabbit, not the chipped one from the library, but a second one, newer and unbroken.
Arthur stared at it as if lightning had struck him. Mrs. Gordon gasped behind them in the hallway.
“That was not there,” she whispered in terror.
Arthur turned slowly.
“What?”
Mrs. Gordon’s face had gone white as paper.
“That rabbit, it was not on the pillow when I locked this room,” she insisted.
Maya felt cold spread through her body as Arthur stepped closer to the bed and picked up the toy. A folded piece of paper was tied around its neck with a pink ribbon, and his fingers stiffened.
“Esther could not write,” he said, his voice trembling.
No one answered him. He untied the ribbon and opened the note, and Maya saw the color leave his face instantly.
“What does it say?” she asked.
Arthur read the words once, then again, and when he finally spoke, his voice barely sounded human.
“It says, ‘Daddy, I waited for you,’” he revealed.
Mrs. Gordon crossed herself in the doorway, and Maya’s heart slammed against her ribs. Arthur looked up, his eyes burning with shock, grief, and something far more dangerous, which was hope. Then, from somewhere deep inside the room, a music box began to play on its own, a delicate, broken melody filling the air.
Maya recognized it instantly, the same lullaby she had sung in the study. Arthur turned toward the wardrobe, and the door stood open by one inch, and from the darkness inside came the soft, unmistakable sound of a child laughing.
