Envelope

Episode 13

The wheels of Ethan's chair creaked softly against the wooden floor as he rolled toward the tall window. Sunlight poured in, casting long shadows across the room. His gaze settled on the garden beyond the glass, a quiet patch of green with wildflowers swaying gently in the breeze. But he wasn't really seeing the flowers. His mind was elsewhere, caught in a loop of memory.

A voice from the past echoed in his ears, low and gravelly.

"Ethan, my boy, I'm glad you changed your mind."

He'd been standing in the foyer that day, suitcase in hand, nerves buzzing. Don Emilio had looked at him with that fatherly smile too wide, too calm.

"I still don't understand why you did what you did," Ethan had replied, suspicion laced through his voice.

"Some things," Don Emilio had said, his eyes darkening just for a second, "are better left unknown."

Now, sitting in his chair, Ethan's jaw clenched. The memory was more than just words. It was the tight grip Don Emilio had placed on his shoulder, the way his gaze lingered too long. It had felt like a warning.

Ethan pulled away from the window and turned toward the hallway. He glanced over his shoulder instinctively, the hair on the back of his neck prickling. A knot of unease had taken root in his gut the day he arrived and it had only grown since.

He wheeled himself toward Don Emilio's room. The door creaked open slowly. He hesitated, heart thudding in his chest, then pushed inside. The room smelled faintly of cigar smoke and old wood. Bookshelves lined the walls, heavy with dust-covered tomes. A suitcase rested near the bed, half-zipped, like it had been opened in a hurry. Drawers were neatly shut, too neatly.

Ethan's fingers trembled slightly as he rifled through the drawers, one after another, papers, photos, nothing unusual. He opened the cupboard, pushed aside shirts, jackets. Still nothing.

Then, just as he moved a thick medical textbook from the bottom shelf, something slipped out and fluttered to the floor.

An envelope.

Ethan froze. His breath caught in his throat as he picked it up, eyes darting to the doorway. No sound. No footsteps.

The envelope was old, the edges stiff and stained. When he opened it, a single sheet of paper slid out written in rushed, uneven handwriting. Bloodstains dotted the page, dried and brown. The signature at the bottom made his chest tighten.

Rose.

His hands trembled as he began to read:

"Iknow someone will read this letter. Whoever you are, please… please keep this confidential. He knows what I saw. The door I found it. He hides it on the first floor, behind the back of his library. I don't know why he chose the door over his daughter. But I smelled something… something evil. I saw—"

The letter cut off abruptly.

Ethan stared at the words, his heartbeat loud in his ears. The final sentence trailed off like a whisper swallowed by death. She had been trying to say something more, something terrible. And she had died before she could finish.

He clutched the letter to his chest, trying to steady his breathing.

"What evil are you hiding, Don Emilio?" he muttered under his breath.

He looked around the room again, but everything seemed still—eerily still, as though the walls themselves were listening. The ticking of the old clock on the nightstand was the only sound.

For a moment, Ethan closed his eyes and let himself drift back—to the days before the accident, before Don Emilio, before all of this. He could almost smell the engine oil from his workshop, hear the laughter of his sister on the porch, feel the weight of the world before it fell apart.

But the warmth of those memories only made the cold of his current reality feel sharper.

He opened his eyes and whispered to the empty room, "If I ever walk again… I'm going to find that door."

It wasn't just about answers anymore. It was about justice for Rose, for whatever had been taken from her. The truth was buried somewhere in this house. And he would dig until he found it.

Outside, the wind rustled the trees, but inside, Ethan sat still as stone his eyes burning with quiet resolve.