Chapter 3: Morning Lies Softly.

"Sleep," he said instead. "Morning makes this place less..... honest."

The words stayed with Elara long after he left.

Less honest.

She wasn't sure whether that mean safer.....or simply better at hiding its teeth.

Sleep did not come easily.

Every creak of the manor felt deliberate. Every whisper of wind along the stone walls sounded like breath drawn too close to her ear. At some point, exhaustion dragged her under _ not gently, but like dark water closing overhead.

She dreamed of corridors.

Endless ones.

Lined with doors that pulsed like living things.

Behind each door, someone knocked.

Softly.

Patiently.

Waiting for her to open.

She woke with a sharp breath.

Sunlight filtered through the curtains.

Pale. Silver. Weak _ but real.

For a moment, everything felt smaller.

Normal. Almost foolish.

The fire had burned low. The shadows had retreated into corners. The air no longer pressed against her lungs like a weight.

"Less honest," she murmured.

She sat up slowly.

Nothing moved in the room.

No whispers.

No shifting reflections.

No sense of being watched.

Just morning.

She almost laughed in relief.

Then she noticed the tray beside her bed.

Fresh steam curled from a porcelain teapot.

Two slices of bread. Butter already spread. A small dish of dark jam.

Her stomach dropped.

She had locked the door before sleeping.

Hadn't she?

She slid out of bed carefully and crossed the room.

The tea smelled of lavender and something unfamiliar. Sweet, but not comforting.

"Hello?" she called softly.

No answer.

She touched the teapot.

Warm.

Very warm.

Someone had been here moments ago.

Her gaze drifted to the door.

It was still closed.

Still locked.

The key rested in the inside latch exactly where she remembered leaving it.

Her pulse thudded in her throat.

"Okay," she whispered. "Okay...old houses have...ways."

That made no sense.

But she drank the tea anyway.

It steadied her hands.

She dressed quickly and forced herself to open the door.

The hallway looked different in daylight.

Longer.

Less threatening.

The portraits along the walls seemed dull now, their eyes only paint and varnish.

She stepped out.

The carpet muffled her footsteps.

"Hello?" she called again, louder.

A door at the far end of the corridor creaked open.

She froze.

An elderly woman stepped out.

Thin. Upright. Dressed in a black gown that looked decades out of to time. Her gray hair was pulled into a tight bun. Her eyes were sharp and assessing.

"You must be Miss Elara," the woman said.

Her voice was crisp, controlled, and very real.

"Yes," Elara said, almost too quickly. "I...I didn't know anyone else lived here."

"We don't," the woman replied.

Elara blinked. "But you..."

"I keep the house," she said calmly. "It keeps me."

That did not help.

"I'm Mrs. Alder," she continued. "Breakfast suits you?"

"You brought it?"

"Yes."

"The door was locked."

Mrs. Alder held her gaze.

"Was it?"

Elara opened her mouth.

Closed it again.

"I see you have met the master," Mrs. Alder said.

Her tone shifted silently. Not warmer. Just...careful.

"Yes."

"And?"

Elara hesitated. "He seems...sad."

Something unreadable passed through the woman's eyes.

"This is one word for it."

They began walking down the hall together.

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