The Door Ajar
When Emily got back from the shops, the front door was slightly open. Not wide—just not fully shut. The gap between the door and the frame looked deliberate, almost too precise, like someone had stepped inside, paused, then left without staying. Or maybe, just maybe, they were still there.
She set her shopping bags down and froze. Her heart thudded softly but fast. No sounds, no footsteps—just silence and the faintest draft rustling the edge of the hall rug. And something else—a hint of a smell that didn’t belong. Cigarettes? Or just the street? She sniffed the air, but it was gone.
She’d lived alone for the past three years, ever since Tom had left—first to a rented flat, then to another city, then to a whole new life. He’d texted her twice. Once to ask for an old jumper, the second time to say he was getting married. She never replied. Not out of anger—just because there was nothing left to say when someone stops asking. Inside, everything had smoothed over, leaving only a quiet sadness, like frost on a window: marks you can’t quite trace.
Emily stepped inside, scanning the hallway. Everything was in place. Coat on the hook. Umbrella in the corner. Mail on the shelf. No signs of disturbance, no scuffed doormat, no moved shoes. All normal, and yet—not quite. She shut the door, locked it, and tapped the security system. The blinking green light steadied her a little. Though if someone had been here, they’d be long gone by now. 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, open halfway. A crease on the page’s edge. She could’ve sworn she’d used a bookmark—but maybe she’d forgotten. Or maybe someone had flipped through it. The air felt different somehow, faintly rearranged, as though someone had passed through and left the quietest imprint behind. Not fear, just—a presence.
Back in the hall, she spotted it: an old photo on the side table. Not framed—just a print. Faded, with a corner bent inward. She leaned closer. It was one she’d tucked away in a drawer years ago. Her and Tom, about a decade back. He had his arms around her from behind, and she was laughing. A friend had taken it at a picnic—back when everything felt unshakable, almost forever. Now it looked like it belonged to another lifetime. And someone had left it here on purpose.
It couldn’t have fallen out on its own. Someone had taken it out. Looked at it. Left it. And then—what? Gone? Or stayed? Emily glanced around, listening, as if the walls still held his shadow. She’d hidden the photo not out of bitterness—just because she couldn’t bear to see it anymore. Now here it was, laid bare, like a question. Or an apology.
She sank onto the sofa, scrolling through her phone. No missed calls. No messages. Nothing from him, nothing from anyone—just delivery alerts and bank notifications. All empty words.
Standing, she closed the balcony door—the wind had been drifting through the flat, stirring the curtains like a quiet touch. Evening faded into night. Then—a single, sharp knock at the door. Clear, deliberate. Like whoever did it knew she’d hear.
Emily looked through the peephole. No one there. Just the empty stairwell, dim light overhead. But on the doormat—the old blanket. Their blanket. Blue with white stripes. It looked almost new, though they’d taken it on trips, spread it over sand, hung it to dry in the garden. She remembered its smell, its rough texture. How they’d curled under it in a tent. How they’d washed it together that last time, arguing over detergent before laughing at how silly it was.
A note sat on top. Three words:
*”Sorry. I couldn’t.”*
The paper was folded hastily. The handwriting—his. She recognised it straightaway, the sharp *p’s* and sloping *t’s*. Like he’d come all this way but couldn’t bring himself to knock twice. Or knew she’d understand anyway.
She stood there, staring at the door, the blanket, her own trembling hand. Fragments flickered in her mind—him leaving, the sound of his keys hitting the metal bowl in the hall, the silence she’d dreaded after. Then she picked up the blanket, carried it inside, and carefully unrolled it. 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 shared.
Emily disabled the alarm. Set the key back on the blanket. Sat for a moment, staring at it, like it was a sign of something unfinished. Then she walked to the door—and gently, almost soundlessly, left it slightly open again.
Just in case. Or just in case there was still a chance.
