Chapter Three | The Door Beside the Door

The bell didn’t ring again.

Not out loud, anyway.

But for the next several days, Emery swore she could feel it—vibrating just beneath her ribs, like a second heartbeat. She tried to distract herself with the usual tasks: lighting the lanterns in the square, sweeping the front steps of the town hall, rearranging a truly unnecessary number of miniature gourds on her windowsill.

But the stillness in Mothwick had changed. It had a hum to it now. A waiting.

And her dreams?

Always the same:
A door that didn’t used to be there.
A boy waiting behind it.
And a voice—her own—whispering: “Don’t forget me.”

It was late on a Thursday when she decided to return to the museum.

This time, she didn’t stop at the scarf. She wandered deeper, into the back rooms where visitors rarely went. A series of photographs lined the walls—sepia portraits of town founders, harvest festivals, the occasional blurry creature someone had insisted was definitely not a raccoon.

At the end of the hall, a door.

It looked like a closet. But there was something off about it. The frame was too wide. The doorknob too cold, even for autumn.

No sign. No staff around.

She turned the knob.

Inside: a single chair, a cracked mirror, and a stack of boxes labeled PRIVATE – MERRIN. The air smelled like cedar and rain-drenched stone.

She crouched beside the boxes, hesitated, then lifted the top.

Inside: dozens of letters. All addressed in the same neat hand. All to the same person.

Leo.

She reached for the first one, heart in her throat—
When the mirror creaked.

Not cracked. Creaked.

She turned just in time to see it shift, ever so slightly, in its frame—like someone on the other side had leaned too hard against it.

There was no reflection. Only fog.

And, just for a moment, a figure behind the glass.

A red scarf.
A tilted head.
A boy, smiling softly.

Then—gone.

She backed out of the room slowly. Closed the door. Didn’t run.

But she did take one letter.

Back at home, she opened it with trembling hands.

The date: October 1992.

The signature: Iris Merrin.

And the words:
“I don’t know if this letter will find you. But if it does… I need you to know the bell was never broken. Only waiting.”