I was early to the open house. Too early. The real estate agent hadn’t arrived yet, but the door was unlocked.
Curiosity got the better of me.
It was a quiet cottage on a hill outside the city. Old wood floors, ivy-covered walls, and just enough mystery
to make me love it instantly.
I wandered into the hallway, admiring the layout—two bedrooms, one bath. That’s when I heard voices
upstairs.
“…he doesn’t remember. We wiped everything before we left Paris. The third room stays sealed.”
A pause.
“Unless she finds the key.”
I froze. The floor creaked beneath me.
“Did you hear that?” one of them whispered.
I ran. Out the back door, through the overgrown garden, heart pounding.
Who were they talking about? Me?
That night, I did what no sane person should: I came back.
The house was dark, but the upstairs light was on.
I found the third door behind a bookcase. Hidden, narrow. Locked.
And there he was.
A man inside. Disoriented. Alive. Chained to the radiator.
His eyes widened when he saw me.
“Claire?” he said, like he knew me. “They said you were dead.”
“I’m not Claire,” I whispered. But something twisted inside me. He looked at me like I’d meant everything to him.
Before I could speak again, I heard a voice behind me.
“Step away from him.”
It was the agent. Calm. Holding a syringe.
“I don’t know what’s going on,” I said.
She smiled. “You will. You’re remembering too fast.”
I turned and ran. Again.
But this time, something had cracked open. I couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t stop thinking about that man—Adrien. His face haunted me. His voice. The way he said my name like it had weight.
Claire.
I looked through my things. Old files. Photos. My driver’s license said Emma Thorne. Always had. But there were strange gaps—no photos from my early twenties. No clear memory of how I got this apartment. I couldn’t remember my last birthday. Or the one before that.
I went back to the house. One last time.
The door was locked now, but I still had the tools I’d used before.
Inside, it was silent. Cold.
The bookcase was still there. So was the hidden door.
Unlocked.
I stepped inside.
Empty.
No chains. No man. No trace anyone had ever been there.
Only one thing remained: a mirror on the wall.
And something written on it in faded black marker:
“You already chose to forget.”
I stared at my reflection. I looked tired. Pale. I didn’t know who I was looking at.
Behind me, I heard the agent’s voice.
“You came back alone. Good.”
I turned. She wasn’t holding a syringe this time. Just a small silver object. A key.
“I want answers,” I said.
“You don’t,” she replied gently. “That’s why we made the third room.”
I stepped closer. “What was this place?”
“A test site,” she said. “For recovery. For regret. You came here to undo the things you did in Paris. We tried to help you forget. You begged us to.”
“And him?” I asked. “Adrien?”
She hesitated. “You loved him. He didn’t stop you. That’s why you couldn’t forgive either of you.”
“What did I do?”
“We don’t say it out loud anymore.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s easier to live with ghosts than with truth.”
She set the key down on the floor between us.
“One last time,” she said. “It’s your choice. Lock the door. Or open it and remember everything.”
I stood there for a long time after she left.
In the mirror, I watched myself bend down, pick up the key.
My hand shook. I turned it over. Felt its weight.
I walked to the radiator, knelt where Adrien had been.
Another panel. A small one, painted over but loose.
I opened it.
Inside: a photograph. Faded, torn.
Two people, arm in arm. Me. And Adrien.
Paris behind us.
And scribbled in the margin:
If you see this, leave. Don’t let her open the room again.
I stared at it until my vision blurred.
Then I lit a match.
The flame caught slowly. The old wood smoked, cracked, then burned. The third room lit up orange, heat rushing to my face.
I stepped back and watched it burn. Until the walls collapsed. Until nothing remained but ash and smoke and silence.
I left the key behind.
And walked out into the night, not remembering—but not forgetting either.
I left the key behind.
And walked out into the night, not remembering—but not forgetting either.
The fire took the house fast. Old wood, dry as paper. I stood at the edge of the hill as the flames consumed it. There were no sirens. No one came. Just me, the wind, and the distant crackle of a life being erased.
By morning, it was gone.
I went home, lay on the bed, and stared at the ceiling.
I didn't dream.
Days passed. Then weeks. And the world didn’t end. I went back to work. Took the subway. Answered emails. Laughed at things I didn’t find funny. The world kept turning like nothing had happened.
But something had.
One night, I looked in the mirror and said it out loud.
"Claire."
The name felt like paper in my mouth. Thin. Fragile.
But mine.
There was no twist of recognition. No dramatic flood of memory. Just the quiet sense that I was no longer two people.
Just one.
And that was enough.
Because some truths don’t need remembering.
Some rooms are meant to stay sealed.
Forever.
------------------------------------------- The END ----------------------------------------
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