We spent the afternoon in
a blur of crayons, mismatched socks, and the sound of the old house settling. The girls’ laughter echoed off the high ceilings, and the house, though large and beautiful, felt intimate because of the tiny moments we shared. The only thing that felt out of place was the heavy wooden door at the end of the hallway, its brass lock cold and unyielding.
“What’s behind there?” I asked, the question slipping out before I could stop it.
Daniel glanced at it, then back at the girls, a flicker of something
passing over his face. “Just junk,” he said, the words almost a rehearsed line. “Old stuff from the previous owners. I keep it locked so the kids don’t get hurt.” He gave me a quick smile, the kind that tried to reassure without really saying anything.
It sounded reasonable, and I nodded. “Okay.” The door remained a silent sentinel, its presence a subtle reminder that there were parts of his life I hadn’t yet been invited to see.
