The Door Ajar
When Emily got back from the supermarket, the front door was slightly open. Not wide—just not fully shut. The gap between the door and the frame looked oddly deliberate, like someone had carefully chosen that exact position. As if they’d stepped in, taken a quick look around, hesitated for a second—then left, uncertain whether to stay. Or maybe, just maybe, they were still inside.
She set the grocery bags down on the floor and froze. Her heart thudded softly but fast. No noise, no footsteps—just silence and a faint draught ruffling the edge of the hallway rug. And something else—a trace of an unfamiliar scent, something that didn’t belong in her home. Cigarette smoke? Or just the smell of the street? She sniffed again, but the air had already gone back to normal.
Emily had lived alone for the past three years. Ever since James moved out—first to a rented flat, then to another city, then into a whole new life. He’d written to her twice. Once to ask for his jumper back, the second time to tell her 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 anymore. And honestly, she’d long since smoothed over the hurt inside—like a snowy windowpane: tracks might’ve been there, but you couldn’t tell whose.
She stepped inside slowly, scanning the hallway. Everything was in place. Jacket on the hook. Umbrella in the corner. Letters on the shelf. No sign of a struggle, no ruffled doormat, no shoes nudged out of place. Everything was exactly as she’d left it—and yet, completely different. She shut the door, flipped the latch, and tapped the security alarm button. The blinking green light eased her nerves a little. Still, if someone had been here, they’d probably gone by now. And yet, the odd feeling lingered—like a whisper at the back of her neck.
The kitchen was just as she’d left it that morning. Hob turned off. Mug in the sink. Book on the windowsill, open halfway through. The corner of the page was bent. She could’ve sworn she’d used a bookmark. Maybe she misremembered. Or maybe someone had flipped through it. The air felt ever so slightly disturbed, shifted—as if someone had moved through the room unnoticed, leaving only the faintest trace of themselves behind. Not fear—just the imprint of another presence.
Back in the hall, she finally noticed it—an old photograph lying on the side table. Not in a frame, just a print. Faded a little, one corner tucked under. Emily picked it up. It was a picture she’d tucked away in a drawer ages ago. Her and James. Ten years back. He’s hugging her from behind, she’s laughing. One of their mates must’ve taken it at a picnic. Back then, everything had felt solid, permanent. Now it seemed cut out from another lifetime. And someone had left it here on purpose.
The photo hadn’t just fallen out. Someone had taken it out. Looked at it. Put it here. And left. Or maybe they hadn’t. Emily listened, half-expecting the walls to hold the echo of his shadow. She hadn’t hidden the photo out of spite—she just couldn’t bear to see it anymore. And now here it was, left in the open. A challenge. Or maybe a plea.
She sat on the sofa, picked up her phone. Scrolled through recent calls. Nothing. Messages—empty, too. Nothing from him, nothing from anyone. Just delivery confirmations and bank alerts. Cold, automated lines with no trace of life in them.
Standing, she shut the balcony door—the wind had been drifting through the flat all evening, tugging at the curtains like a quiet caress. Night was settling in. Then—a sudden knock at the door. Just once. Sharp. As if whoever it was knew she’d hear it.
Emily walked over, checked the peephole. No one. Just an empty stairwell, silence, the dim glow of the ceiling bulb. But on the doormat—a neatly folded blanket. Their blanket. Blue with white stripes. It looked almost new, though they’d taken it everywhere—picnics, beach trips, hung it out to dry at the holiday cottage. She remembered its rough texture, the way it smelled after rain. How they’d both huddled under it in a tent. How they’d washed it together that last time, arguing over detergent before laughing at how silly it all was.
On top of the blanket lay a note. Just three words:
*”Sorry, couldn’t stay.”*
The paper was folded crookedly, like it’d been done in a hurry. The handwriting—his. She’d know it anywhere, the sharp angles of the *p’s*, the slant of the *t’s*. As if he’d come all this way, made it to her door, but couldn’t bring himself to knock twice. Or maybe he knew she’d understand without it.
She stood there, staring at the door, the blanket, her own trembling hand. Fragments flashed in her mind—the way he’d left, the sound of his keys hitting the metal bowl in the hallway, how she’d flinched at silence for weeks after. Then she picked up the blanket, carried it inside, and unfolded it carefully. Inside was a key. Her old key—the one he’d never given back. Simple, smooth, with a scratch near the base. She remembered that scratch, like a scar on something they’d once shared.
Emily turned off the alarm. Put the key back in the blanket. Sat for a moment, staring at it like some half-finished puzzle. Then she walked back to the door and, almost soundlessly, left it slightly open again.
Just in case. Or maybe, just maybe, in case there was still a chance.
