The Door Ajar
When Emily returned from the shops, the front door of her flat was slightly open. Not wide—just not properly shut. The gap between the door and the frame looked deliberately measured, as if someone had carefully chosen that exact position. Like they’d stepped inside, glanced around, hesitated—then left, unsure whether to stay. Or perhaps, on second thought, they were still in there.
She set the grocery bags down and froze. Her heart drummed softly but fast. No sounds, no footsteps—just silence and a faint draught rustling the corner of the hallway rug. And something else—a barely-there scent that didn’t belong. Cigarettes? Or just the street? She strained to listen, but the air settled again, ordinary as ever.
She’d lived alone these past three years. Ever since James had left—first to a rented flat, then to another city, then to a life without her. He’d written twice. Once to ask for an old jumper, once to say he was getting married. She hadn’t replied—not out of anger, but because she didn’t know what to say when no one was really asking. Inside, everything had smoothed over, leaving only a quiet melancholy, like frost on a windowpane: traces still there, but no way to tell whose.
Emily stepped inside, scanning the hall. Everything in place—coat on the hook, umbrella in the corner, post stacked neatly on the shelf. No signs of disturbance, no scuffed mat or shifted shoes. Everything was as it should be, and yet—not. She shut the door, locked it, and tapped the alarm panel. The blinking green light steadied her a little. Though if someone had meant harm, they’d have been long gone. Still, the unease lingered like a whisper at her back.
The kitchen was just as she’d left it—hob off, mug in the sink, book on the windowsill splayed open at the middle. A dog-eared page. She swore she’d used a bookmark, but maybe she’d misremembered. Or maybe someone had flipped through it. The air felt rearranged, faintly disturbed, as if someone had drifted through and vanished, leaving only the faintest imprint—not alarm, just the ghost of another presence.
Back in the hall, she noticed it—an old photo on the side table. Not framed, just a print, slightly faded, one corner bent inward. She leaned closer. It was one she’d tucked away years ago—her and James, ten summers back. He had his arms around her, and she was laughing. A friend had taken it at a picnic. Back then, everything had felt solid, nearly forever. Now, it seemed cut from another time. And someone had left it here deliberately.
The photo lay flat. It couldn’t have fallen on its own. Someone had taken it out, looked, and placed it back. Or had they left at all? Emily glanced around, half-expecting his shadow to echo in the walls. She’d hidden the photo not out of bitterness—just because she couldn’t bear to see it. Now here it was, exposed. A challenge—or a plea.
She sank onto the sofa and scrolled her phone—no calls, no texts. Nothing from him, or anyone. Just delivery confirmations and bank alerts, sterile lines without a single living word.
Rising, she shut the balcony door. The wind had been rustling the curtains, gentle as a touch. Evening bled into night, and then—a sharp knock at the door. One clear rap, as if whoever it was knew she’d hear.
Emily looked through the peephole. Empty landing, dim bulb overhead. Only a rolled-up blanket on the doormat—theirs. Navy with white stripes. Nearly new-looking, though they’d taken it camping, spread it on beaches, hung it to dry at his parents’ cottage. She remembered its roughness, its smell. How they’d shared it in a tent. How they’d last washed it together, bickering over detergent, then laughing at how silly the argument was.
On the blanket lay a note—three words:
*“Sorry. Couldn’t stay.”*
The paper was folded clumsily, as if in haste. The handwriting was his—she knew it instantly, the angular *p’s*, the slanted *t’s*. As if he’d come all this way but hadn’t dared knock twice. Or known she’d understand without it.
She stood there, staring at the door, the blanket, her own trembling hand. Fragments rushed back—how he’d left, how his keys had clattered into the bowl, how she’d dreaded the silence afterward. Finally, she picked up the blanket and carried it inside, unrolling it carefully. Inside lay a key—the old one he’d never returned. Simple, smooth, with a scratch near the base. A scar on something shared.
Emily turned off the alarm. Set the key back on the blanket. Sat for a moment, gazing at it like an unfinished sentence. Then she walked to the door and, without a sound, eased it open again.
Just in case. Or in case there was still a chance.
Sometimes, the past knocks once—and waits to see if you’ll open.
