My parents forced me to marry a man I barely knew. He was wealthy, serious, and almost cold. He didn’t smile or speak much, and there was something about his silence that always made me uneasy. After the wedding, he brought me to his mansion — a vast place with endless rooms, servants, and gardens that looked like something out of a dream.
On our first night there, he said, “This house is yours now. You can go anywhere you like… except the attic. Never go into that room.” His tone was calm but sharp, like a warning I couldn’t ignore.
At first, I respected his rule. But the attic seemed to call me. Every time I passed the staircase leading up, I felt something — a strange energy, a whisper of sadness. One day, curiosity won. My heart pounded as I turned the dusty knob and slowly pushed the door open.
Inside was a small, dimly lit room filled with children’s toys, old photos, and a crib covered in a white sheet. My throat tightened as I saw a picture on the table — a woman who looked just like me, holding a baby. Suddenly, I heard his voice behind me, low and shaking: “I told you never to come here.”
When I turned around, he wasn’t angry — he was crying. “That was my wife,” he said softly. “And the child we lost. I couldn’t bear to lose you, too.”