The key vibrated in Note's hand like a tuning fork struck by memory.
He didn't want to look at it. But he did.
It was a simple brass skeleton key—unmarked, unremarkable. But the hum it gave off wasn't sound; it was recognition. Like something old and lost had finally found him.
He slipped it into his coat pocket without ceremony.
The stitched figure at the doorway twitched once, as if disappointed. Then it unraveled—threads of memory and smoke peeling away into the shadows, leaving behind only the faint scent of iron and lilies.
Lilies. Funeral flowers.
He was alone again.
Note stepped out of the protective ring, already fading, and made his way out of the factory. The book on the chair was gone.
So were the footprints.
Back on Hollow Street, the fog had thickened. It curled like fingers through the lamplight and clung to the corners of buildings as if listening.
He walked quickly now—not because he was afraid, but because Ashbourne was beginning to see him. And when cities like this started seeing you, they wanted something.
---
He made his way to the only inn still operating in the downtown ruins: The Widow's Spine.
It used to be a theatre before the disappearances started. Now, it was a place people came to forget rather than be entertained. Its owner, an old woman named Iya, never asked questions—just kept the rooms warm, the tea hot, and the curtains thick.
Note stepped inside and nodded to her silently. She didn't speak, only handed him a key. Room 3.
He barely shut the door behind him before he emptied his coat onto the bed: the locket, the blackened coins, the glass shard, a photo burned at the edges, and now… the key.
He sat.
Something was wrong.
The hum from the key hadn't stopped.
He placed it on the floorboards. The wood underneath began to blacken, as if scorched from within. A perfect outline of a door began to form—no larger than a child's toy chest. It didn't creak open. It simply appeared, as if it had always been there and reality had finally remembered.
The Little Door.
The one from the storybook. The one she used to read to him.
He remembered her voice—his sister's—soft, whispering late at night under blankets.
> "The little door waits, the little door hears,
It feeds on your footsteps and drinks all your fears."
He hadn't thought about that rhyme in years. Not since the day she disappeared.
He reached out, fingers trembling, and knocked once.
The sound didn't echo.
Instead, something knocked back.
He recoiled.
And the door opened.
---
Not wide—just enough for him to see.
Inside was a corridor, impossibly narrow and dimly lit by flickering lanterns that hung from nothing. The walls pulsed slightly, like they were made of living wood. Along the hallway, shadows moved—slowly, like sleepwalkers.
He couldn't tell if they were human.
Or if they had ever been.
But the thing that truly chilled him wasn't what he saw. It was what he felt.
Recognition.
He had been here before.
Some part of him—lost to time or trauma—remembered this hallway. The air tasted like regret. The shadows watched him like old friends. Somewhere, deeper in the corridor, he heard music. A music box playing off-key.
> "You said you'd protect her, Sandy…"
That voice again.
He slammed the door shut and backed away. His heart was racing now—not with fear, but with the shame of something long buried.
He wasn't just chasing ghosts.
He was chasing her.
---
Later that night, the town screamed.
Note jolted upright as the sound tore through the fog and rattled the glass in his window. It was high-pitched, human—but warped. Not pain. Not fear.
Recognition.
He looked out onto the street.
Figures stood in the fog—motionless. Dozens of them. Their backs turned, all facing the same direction: toward the old train station.
Toward where he had arrived.
A low hum vibrated in the air.
The Little Door was glowing.
---
Note stood in the middle of his room, boots already laced, coat on.
He didn't know what was calling him—but he knew who was behind it.
His sister's name caught in his throat.
He had buried it with her.
Or tried to.