The Door Ajar
When Emily returned from the shops, the front door of her flat was slightly ajar. Not wide open—just not fully closed. The gap between the door and the frame looked deliberately precise, as if someone had carefully chosen that exact position. It felt like they’d stepped inside, glanced around, hesitated for a second—then left, unwilling to stay. Or perhaps, on the contrary, they were still inside.
She set the shopping bags down on the floor and froze. Her heart thudded quietly but fast. No noise, no footsteps. Just silence and a faint draught rustling the edge of the hallway rug. And something else—a barely noticeable trace of an unfamiliar scent, out of place in her home. Tobacco? Or just the street? She listened, but the air settled back into its usual neutrality.
She’d lived alone for the past three years. Ever since James had left—first for a rented flat, then for another city, then for a different life altogether. He’d written to her twice. Once to ask for an old jumper he’d left behind, and the second time to tell her he was getting married. She hadn’t replied. Not out of anger. She just didn’t know what to say when no one was really asking anymore. Inside, everything had smoothed over long ago—leaving only a quiet, faintly melancholy surface, like a frosted window: traces might be there, but you couldn’t tell whose.
Emily stepped inside slowly, scanning the hallway. Everything in its place. The coat on the hook. The umbrella in the corner. Letters on the shelf. No signs of disturbance—no rumpled mat, no shoes nudged aside. Everything as it should be, and yet not quite. She shut the door, locked it, and pressed the alarm button. The blinking green light eased her nerves a little. Though if someone had wanted to be gone, they would’ve left by now. Still, the unease lingered, like a faint echo behind her.
The kitchen was exactly as she’d left it that morning. The hob switched off. A mug in the sink. A book on the windowsill, open halfway through. At the edge of the page—a crease. She was sure she’d used a bookmark. But maybe she’d misremembered. Or maybe someone had read it. Or just flipped through. Yet the air felt different, subtly shifted, as if someone had drifted through the room and vanished, leaving the faintest hollow in their wake. Not quite alarm—just the imprint of another presence.
She returned to the hallway and only then noticed it: on the side table lay an old photograph. Not framed—just a print, slightly faded, with one corner folded inward. Emily bent to look. It was a picture she’d tucked away in a drawer long ago. Her and James. Ten years back. He was hugging her from behind, and she was laughing. A friend had taken it at a picnic. Back then, everything had felt solid, almost permanent. Now it seemed cut out from another time. And someone had left it here deliberately.
The photo lay flat. It couldn’t have fallen out on its own. Someone had taken it out. Looked at it. Left it. And then walked away. Or had they? Emily glanced around, listening, as if his shadow still echoed in the walls. She hadn’t hidden the photo out of resentment—she just couldn’t bear to see it anymore. Now it lay exposed, like a challenge. Or 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 notifications from delivery services and the bank. Dry, automated lines with not a single living word.
She stood and closed the balcony door—the wind still drifted through the flat, stirring the curtains softly, almost like a caress. Evening faded into night. Then—silence was cut by the sharp ring of the doorbell. Once. Clear. As if whoever pressed it knew she’d hear.
Emily approached. Peered through the peephole. No one. Just the empty stairwell, dim under the ceiling light. Only on the doormat—a blanket, rolled up neatly. Their old one. Navy with white stripes. It looked almost new, though they’d taken it on trips, spread it on beaches, hung it to dry at her parents’ cottage. She remembered its scent, its rough texture. Remembered the two of them bundled under it in a tent. The last time they’d washed it together, arguing over detergent before laughing at how silly the fight had been.
On the blanket lay a note. Just three words:
*”Sorry. Couldn’t stay.”*
The paper was folded unevenly, as if in haste. The handwriting—his. She knew it instantly, from the jagged *p*s and slanting *t*s. As if he’d come after all, made it this far, but couldn’t bring himself to ring twice. Or maybe he knew she’d understand without it.
She stood there. Stared at the door, the blanket, her trembling hand. Fragments flashed in her mind—him leaving, the clatter of his key against the metal bowl in the hall, the way silence had unnerved her after. Then she picked up the blanket, carried it inside, and carefully unrolled it. Inside lay a key. The old one he’d never returned. Plain, smooth, with a scratch near the base—she remembered that scratch, like a scar on something shared.
Emily turned off the alarm. Placed the key back in the blanket. Sat for a few seconds, staring at it like an unfinished symbol. Then she walked to the door and slowly, almost soundlessly, pushed it ajar again.
Just in case. Or in case there was still a chance.
