The Door Left Ajar
When Emily returned from the shop, the front door to her flat was slightly open. Not wide—just not properly shut. The gap between the door and the frame was unnervingly precise, as if someone had carefully chosen exactly how much to leave it ajar. Like they’d stepped inside, looked around, hesitated—then left, deciding not to stay. Or, perhaps, they were still there.
She set the grocery bags down and froze. Her heart thudded softly but fast. No noise, no footsteps—just silence and a faint draught rustling the corner of the hallway rug. And then—the faintest whiff of something foreign. Cigarette smoke? Or just the city air? She sniffed, but the scent was already gone.
She’d lived alone for the past three years. Ever since James had left—first to a rented flat, then to another city, then to a whole new life without her. He’d texted twice. Once to ask for an old jumper back, the second to say he was getting married. She never replied. Not out of anger. She just didn’t know what to say when no one was really asking. Inside, it had all faded anyway—leaving only a quiet, slightly sad smoothness, like frost on a windowpane. You could almost see traces, but never quite tell whose they were.
Emily stepped inside, scanning the hallway. Everything in place. Coat on the hook. Umbrella in the corner. Bills stacked neatly on the shelf. No sign of a scramble, no scuffed doormat, no shoes nudged aside. All as it should be—and yet, not. She shut the door, turned the lock, and thumbed the security alarm. The blinking green light soothed her slightly. Though really, if someone had wanted to rob her, they’d have been long gone. Still—a lingering unease settled, like an echo at her back.
The kitchen was exactly as she’d left it that morning. Stove off. Mug in the sink. A book open halfway on the windowsill, a crease at the spine. She could’ve sworn she’d used a bookmark. Maybe she misremembered. Or maybe someone had flipped through it. The air itself felt shifted, ever so slightly disturbed, as if an invisible presence had drifted through and vanished, leaving only the faintest imprint. Not quite a threat—just the whisper of an intruder.
Returning to the hallway, she finally noticed it—the old photo on the side table. Not framed, just a loose print, slightly faded, one corner bent inward. Emily leaned closer. It was a picture she’d tucked away in a drawer years ago. Her and James. A decade ago. Him hugging her from behind, her mid-laugh, snapped by a friend at a picnic. Back when everything felt permanent, as sturdy as forever. Now it looked like a relic from another time. And someone had left it here on purpose.
The photo lay flat. It couldn’t have fallen out on its own. Someone had dug it up. Studied it. Placed it here. Then left—or had they? Emily glanced around, listening, as if his ghost might still linger in the walls. She’d hidden the photo not out of bitterness—just because she couldn’t bear to look at it. Now here it was, exposed again. A challenge? An apology?
She sank onto the sofa, thumbing through her phone. No missed calls. No texts. Nothing from him, nothing from anyone. Just bland notifications—delivery updates, bank alerts. Empty, automated words without a single human touch.
Standing, she shut the balcony door—the breeze had been drifting in, rustling the curtains like a quiet, restless hand. Evening bled into night. Then—a sharp, single knock at the door. Clear. Deliberate. As if whoever it was *knew* she’d hear it.
Emily peered through the peephole. No one. Just the empty landing, dim under the ceiling light. Except—on the doormat lay a rolled-up throw blanket. *Their* blanket. Navy with white stripes. Nearly pristine, despite years of picnics, beach trips, drying on a washing line at the countryside cottage. She remembered its texture, its faint smell of detergent and grass. The way they’d burrowed under it in a tent once, bickered over laundry powder, then laughed at how silly the argument had been.
On top of the blanket, a note. Just three words:
*”Sorry. Couldn’t stay.”*
The paper was folded haphazardly, like it had been rushed. The handwriting—his. She knew it instantly, from the jagged *p*’s and slanted *t*’s. As if he’d come all this way, made it this far, then lost his nerve to knock twice. Or maybe he knew she’d understand anyway.
She stood there. Stared at the door, the blanket, her own trembling fingers. Fragments flashed through her head—the day he’d left, the sound of his keys clattering into the bowl by the door, the way silence had terrified her after. Finally, she picked up the blanket, carried it inside, and unrolled it gently. Inside—a key. The old spare he’d never returned. Smooth, unremarkable, except for a scratch near the base. She remembered that scratch like a scar on something they’d once shared.
Emily turned off the alarm. Set the key back in the blanket. Sat for a long moment, staring at it like an unfinished sentence. Then she walked to the door and, slowly, almost soundlessly, left it slightly open again.
Just in case. Or just in case there was still a chance.
