Loraine began to notice it in the quiet moments.
Not when Jason was near.
Not when the house was loud with footsteps or voices.
Only when everything was still.
The locked door seemed closer.
She knew that was impossible—it had not moved, not even an inch. It remained at the end of the west corridor, dark wood untouched by sunlight, the handle dull and old, the lock heavy and unfamiliar.
And yet, some nights, when she lay awake listening to Jason breathe beside her, she could swear she heard something from that direction.
A low sound.
Not a voice.
More like… breathing.
Memory Without Touch
Jason had not touched her in days.
Not even accidentally.
No hands on her waist.
No fingers brushing her skin.
No kisses pressed into her hair.
Instead, he watched.
"You've been tired," he said calmly one morning. "I don't want to overwhelm you."
She nodded.
Inside, confusion twisted painfully. Part of her felt relieved. Another part—ashamed of itself—felt rejected.
When she passed the corridor that led to the locked door, her steps slowed without her meaning to.
Jason noticed.
"Don't linger there," he said mildly.
She jumped. "I wasn't—"
"I know," he interrupted gently. "You're just curious."
His eyes darkened—not with anger, but with something measured.
"Curiosity ruins beautiful things."
The Dream
That night, she dreamed of the door.
It was open.
Inside was a room filled with mirrors—hundreds of them—each one showing Jason's face, all smiling differently.
In the center stood her mother, reaching out.
When Loraine tried to run to her, the door slammed shut.
She woke up screaming.
Jason was instantly awake, gripping her shoulders.
"Hey," he said sharply. "Look at me."
She shook, tears spilling uncontrollably.
"It was just a dream," he said, but his voice lacked conviction. "You're safe."
She looked past him.
Down the hallway.
Jason followed her gaze.
Something passed over his face—fast and dangerous.
Jason Changes the Rules
The next day, the corridor was blocked.
A velvet rope now stood several feet before the locked door.
Elegant. Polite.
Final.
"I don't want you wandering at night," Jason said smoothly. "You scare yourself."
Her voice was small. "What's in there, Jason?"
He didn't answer immediately.
Instead, he adjusted the rope.
"There are parts of me you're not ready to understand," he said calmly. "That room holds memories. Ugly ones."
She swallowed. "From before me?"
His jaw tightened.
"There was never a before you," he said flatly.
The air grew heavy.
Then, softer, almost pleading:
"Please don't make me protect you from things that will change how you see me."
Her heart ached.
She nodded.
The House Whispers
After that, the house felt different.
At night, the walls creaked in unfamiliar ways.
The air felt colder near the west wing.
Jason locked their bedroom door every evening now.
"For your peace," he said.
Once, while he slept, she slipped from the bed and stood barefoot on the floor.
She didn't go near the corridor.
She didn't need to.
She could feel it.
The door.
Waiting.
A Slip
It happened accidentally.
Jason left early that morning—truly left, not pretending. The house was quiet in a way she hadn't felt in weeks.
As she walked past the corridor, the velvet rope was gone.
Her breath caught.
Her feet moved before her mind could stop them.
She stood inches from the door.
Up close, it was worse.
The wood was scarred—burn marks, deep and old. The lock wasn't decorative. It was reinforced.
And there—
Scratches.
On the inside.
Her stomach turned violently.
She stepped back.
That was when she heard his voice.
"Loraine."
She screamed.
Jason's Calm Is the Most Terrifying Thing
He wasn't angry.
That was the worst part.
He approached slowly, his footsteps silent on the floor.
"I told you not to come here," he said quietly.
"I—I didn't touch it," she sobbed. "I swear—"
"I know," he replied.
He reached past her and replaced the velvet rope.
Then he turned to her, cupping her face gently.
"You're not ready," he said, voice almost sad. "And I don't want to lose you yet."
"Lose me?" she whispered.
His thumb brushed beneath her eye, wiping away a tear.
"Yes," he said softly. "Because once you open that door… you can never love me the same way again."
Her blood ran cold.
He pulled her into his chest.
Held her there.
Too tight.
"You're mine," he murmured. "And I will decide when you're strong enough to know everything."
Questions That Linger Like Smoke
Why are there scratches on the inside of the door?
What memories is Jason hiding—and from whom?
Why does he sound afraid of her seeing the truth?
And when the door finally opens…
will Loraine still recognize the man she married?