Silent Testimony of the Iris Wall

The brass key stuck in the lock for three seconds before Eric twisted it, the grinding gears like an old man's groan. Ayla's fingertips brushed the oak door's carvings, dislodging decades of dust from iris patterns into her pinned hair. The smell—crushed dried petals mingling with parchment—identical to the sachet in her mother's funeral dress.

"Mistress has two hours." The butler pinched out the tri-wick lamp, embers scorching his starched cuffs. "After midnight, the heating pipes carry Lady Odile's rose essence...not ideal for nostalgia."

Ayla didn't respond. Reaching for the emerald-gilded diary on the highest shelf, her hoop skirt caught the ladder's brass ring. Pages cascaded like skeletal moths, a sketch fluttering to her feet—fifteen-year-old Lucas had drawn her among irises, but the sculpting knife in her hand was altered to a dagger, "To the Betrayer" scrawled in crimson over the date.

(Crumbles the sketch's edge, aged paper fracturing like frost in her palm)

"Second Young Master's work from his fourteenth winter." Eric materialized behind her, gloved finger tracing shelf grooves. "He always demanded my chamomile tea to warm his hands while painting."

Ayla whirled, slamming into a wobbling book trolley. The six-tiered oak shelf creaked ominously as crimson liquid oozed from wallpaper seams—dried iris sap? She reached to touch, but Eric blocked the fissure with the candlestick: "Careful, Miss. Old walls...sometimes weep."

(The substance on her fingertip felt icy and viscous, reeking of rust and withered stems)

At the eleventh chime, Ayla found a bundle beneath the diary's lining. Faded blue ribbons bound seven letters with broken wax seals—anonymous notes Lucas slipped under her studio door each birthday dawn, the ones she'd tossed into fires unopened. Beneath lay a curled sketch of her napping at the sculpture table, margins scribbled with overwritten "Forgive me"s.

"Young Master painted feverish." Eric scraped candle wax. "Said fevers let one see ghosts—like your mother's shadow touching iris walls."

A draft extinguished all candles. Mechanical gears growled within walls as darkness swallowed the room. Turning to speak, Ayla found Eric's silver pocket watch open, her mother's initials engraved inside—and where shelves once stood, a secret door hung with black crepe now loomed.