The morning after her arrival was colder than it had any right to be. Maya woke with a start, shivering beneath thin covers in her old bedroom—the only one that didn't feel like it might collapse under her. Pale light filtered through dusty curtains, casting long, skeletal shadows on the floor.
She hadn't slept much. The whisper from the night before still echoed in her ears, though she couldn't be sure it wasn't a dream. But something about it felt too real. Too deliberate.
Maya dragged herself out of bed and made her way downstairs. The kitchen looked like it hadn't been touched in years. Everything was still in its place—mom's chipped teacups, a jar of cinnamon sticks she never used, and a grocery list taped to the fridge. The date on it was over four months old.
She poured herself a cup of stale instant coffee, then sat at the table with the old photo album she found tucked inside a drawer the night before. Pictures of her mother, smiling with people Maya didn't recognize. A few photos of Maya as a child, always looking away from the camera. Never quite in the moment.
As she flipped through the pages, a name caught her eye—"Eliza"—scrawled in messy handwriting beneath a photo of a young woman standing in the fog, her face obscured. There was no date. No context. Just that name.
"Eliza," Maya whispered. The name felt strange on her tongue. Like a secret that had never been told.
A knock on the door startled her.
She rose cautiously and peeked through the peephole. A man stood outside, tall, with sharp features and tired eyes. He looked like he belonged to the fog—drenched in it, molded by it.
"Maya Ellison?" he asked when she opened the door.
"Yes?"
"I'm Detective Nathan Rourke. I worked your mother's case."
She studied him. His expression was unreadable.
"You think there's more to her death," she said flatly.
He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he handed her a file—thin, unremarkable, but heavy with implication.
"There were... inconsistencies," he said. "Things that didn't make sense. I tried to follow up, but your mother's lawyer pushed for a closed case. Quick and quiet."
She opened the file. Inside were photos of her mother's bedroom—neat, untouched, except for one thing: a broken mirror above the vanity, shards swept into a corner.
"She was terrified of mirrors," Maya said quietly. "She always kept them covered."
Rourke nodded. "Exactly. So why uncover one the night she died?"
Maya closed the file slowly, her mind spinning. "There's a locked room upstairs," she said. "It was always off-limits. She told me never to go inside."
"Did you?"
She hesitated. "No. I never dared."
Rourke looked at her, eyes steady. "It might be time."
Upstairs, the hallway felt tighter than it had the night before. Like the house itself was closing in. Maya led him to the door at the end of the hall—the only one with a brass lock instead of a knob. She hadn't noticed the faint scratches on the wood until now.
She pulled a small ring of keys from her pocket, the ones the lawyer had handed over with a strained smile. One of them matched.
The lock clicked.
The door creaked open.
The air inside was cold. Not just unheated, but unnaturally cold. Like the room had never known warmth.
Dust motes floated through the dim light. The room was bare except for a rocking chair in the center, facing the window. A small porcelain doll sat in its lap—its glass eyes cracked, mouth twisted into a near-smile.
Something inside Maya recoiled.
Rourke stepped forward slowly, scanning the room.
There were no mirrors. No pictures. Just peeling wallpaper and silence.
But Maya could feel it.
Something had happened here.
Something that hadn't left.