Chapter 2 - THE ROOM NOBODY ENTERED
The morning after Vincent Marquetti served his four-minute punishment, the entire mansion behaved as though a natural disaster had passed through the kitchen.
Nobody mentioned it.
Nobody laughed about it.
Nobody dared ask whether it would happen again.
Except Lily.
At breakfast, she placed a folded paper beside Vincent's plate.
He examined it.
A purple star.
Underneath, in crooked letters, she had written GOOD LISTENER.
Vincent studied the drawing for an uncomfortable length of time.
"What's this?"
"A reward."
"For what?"
"For doing your time-out."
One of his guards coughed into his fist.
Vincent looked up.
The guard immediately straightened.
But Vincent didn't threaten him.
He simply placed the paper beside his coffee.
"Thank you, Lily."
She beamed.
I wished the floor would open.
After breakfast, I pulled my daughter into the pantry.
"Lily, sweetheart, you can't keep giving Mr. Marquetti orders."
"Why?"
"Because he owns this house."
She frowned.
"Does he own the rules?"
"No."
"Then he still has to follow them."
I closed my eyes.
There was no arguing with a four-year-old who believed morality was as simple as crayons and refrigerator magnets.
Unfortunately, she wasn't entirely wrong.
That afternoon, the head housekeeper, Mrs. Bell, summoned me.
She was a severe woman with perfectly pinned gray hair.
"Mr. Marquetti has instructed that your daughter may continue accompanying you during the morning shift."
I stared.
"He's not firing me?"
Mrs. Bell looked offended.
"Apparently not."
"Did he say why?"
"No."
She hesitated.
"However, he also instructed that the upstairs east corridor remain locked."
My stomach tightened.
"Of course."
Mrs. Bell leaned closer.
"Elena, you've been here six weeks. You're a good worker. Don't become curious about things that aren't your concern."
I nodded.
But later that afternoon, curiosity found me.
I was carrying fresh linens toward the laundry room when I heard music drifting from upstairs.
A piano.
Soft.
Slow.
Beautiful.
The melody sounded familiar.
I had heard it somewhere before.
At first, I thought someone was playing a recording.
Then the music stopped abruptly.
A man's voice followed.
"Get out."
Vincent.
I froze.
Another voice answered.
"Sir, the doctor said—"
"I said get out."
Footsteps hurried toward the staircase.
A nurse appeared, pale and shaken.
She brushed past me without speaking.
I watched her disappear.
Then I looked toward the upstairs corridor.
The forbidden corridor.
That evening, Lily asked why Mr. Vincent didn't have any children.
I nearly dropped her pajamas.
"Why would you ask that?"
"Because he has a big house."
"That doesn't mean he has children."
"But he has lots of rooms."
I sat beside her.
"Some people don't have children, sweetheart."
She considered this.
"Maybe he's lonely."
I brushed hair from her forehead.
"Maybe."
"Then we should share cookies."
I laughed softly.
"Not everyone wants cookies."
Lily looked deeply offended.
"Everybody wants cookies."
The next morning, she carried a small plate into the breakfast room.
Three chocolate-chip cookies.
One was slightly burned.
Vincent looked at them.
"What are these?"
"Lonely cookies."
He stopped moving.
I hurried forward.
"Lily, sweetheart—"
She continued.
"Mommy says sharing makes sad people feel better."
Vincent stared at the plate.
Then he asked:
"Who told you I was sad?"
Lily shrugged.
"Your eyes."
The room fell silent.
Vincent looked away.
For a moment, I thought he would become angry.
Instead, he took a cookie.
He bit into it.
Chewed.
Then said quietly:
"My daughter used to make these."
My heart stopped.
His daughter.
I had never heard anyone mention a child.
Lily tilted her head.
"Where is she?"
Vincent's hand tightened around the cookie.
He looked toward the staircase.
"She's gone."
Lily's smile faded.
"Did she get lost?"
Vincent stared at her.
Then whispered:
"Something like that."
He stood and left the room.
I watched him disappear upstairs.
And suddenly the forbidden corridor made terrible sense.
There was a child's bedroom somewhere in that house.
A room nobody entered.
A room Vincent Marquetti could not bear to open.
That night, after Lily fell asleep, I heard the piano again.
The same melody.
And this time, I remembered where I had heard it.
My grandmother used to hum it.
She called it The Little Star Waltz.
But the strangest part wasn't the music.
It was the faint sound that followed.
May you like
A woman crying.
Somewhere beyond the locked upstairs corridor.
