One night, there was a knock at our door. My husband, Mark, got up to check, his footsteps heavy on the creaky stairs. I waited in bed, heart pounding faintly. When he opened it, he froze, his silhouette rigid against the hallway light.
Standing outside was his ex-girlfriend, Lena—pale as moonlight, soaking wet, her dark hair plastered to her face like seaweed. Water dripped from her sodden dress, pooling on our porch. Her lips moved, whispering something I couldn’t hear, but Mark’s face drained of color.
He slammed the door shut with a thunderous bang, locked it twice, and leaned against it, breathing ragged. “Nothing,” he muttered when I asked. He said nothing more that night, just climbed back into bed, shivering despite the blankets.
The next morning, over coffee, I unfolded the local paper. There it was: Lena’s obituary. Drowned two days earlier in Willow Lake. Body recovered yesterday. The date stared back—Wednesday. The knock had been Friday night.
Mark wouldn’t meet my eyes. “Coincidence,” he whispered, but his hands trembled. That night, I heard it again: three soft raps. Mark didn’t move. I crept downstairs alone. The door creaked open to empty darkness, but the air smelled of lake water and regret.
Whispers followed us for weeks—her voice in the wind, accusing. Mark confessed everything: the fight, the push, the secret he’d buried. Now, she was back, unfinished. We packed that night, fleeing our home. But some doors, once opened, never truly close.
