Chapter 4 - The Hidden Lullaby
By sunrise, the rain had stopped, leaving the estate wrapped in a thick, white mountain fog that clung to the stone walls like cotton wool.
Nathaniel did not go back to bed. He spent the remaining hours of the night in the east wing private study—the room that had belonged to his daughter before the accident.
For three years, the door to Grace’s room had been locked. Not just with a key, but with a deadbolt installed at Nathaniel’s personal direction. The furniture remained exactly as it had been on the afternoon of November 12th: a white iron bed with a floral quilt, a bookshelf lined with battered copies of The Velveteen Rabbit and Madeline, and a large, ornate mahogany dollhouse standing against the north wall.
He stood in the center of the room now, holding the brass key he had taken from Lily.
Marisol Vega stood near the doorway, her hands clasped tightly in front of her apron, her eyes darting nervously around the silent, dust-free space. Nathaniel had insisted she accompany him; he trusted no one else in the house at the moment—not even Marcus.
“You’ve never been in here?” Nathaniel asked without turning around.
“Never, Mr. Hail,” Marisol said, her voice barely above a breath. “You gave strict orders. Even the cleaning staff was forbidden from entering the east wing after the... after everything happened. We used dust covers in the hallway, but this room was sealed.”
“Sealed,” Nathaniel repeated.
He walked over to the mahogany dollhouse. It was an exact architectural replica of Hollow Ridge itself, built by a master craftsman in Boston as a Christmas gift for Grace. Every room, every tiny window, every piece of miniature furniture had been meticulously hand-carved.
Nathaniel knelt down before the dollhouse.
On the miniature grand staircase—positioned in the exact spot where Lily had sat four hours earlier—stood a tiny, porcelain figurine of a little girl in brown-bear pajamas.
Marisol gasped, taking a half-step backward, her hand flying to her mouth.
“Where did that come from?” she whispered. “Mr. Hail, that wasn't there when we moved in. I washed the outside of the glass last month—there was nothing inside the foyer except the tiny piano!”
Nathaniel reached out with two fingers. He didn't touch the porcelain figurine. Instead, he examined the side of the dollhouse’s ground-floor facade.
Beneath the miniature front porch, concealed behind a carved wooden trellis, was a tiny, recessed keyhole.
The exact size of the brass winding key in his pocket.
His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. Slowly, deliberately, Nathaniel pulled the brass key from his pocket and inserted it into the tiny brass lock beneath the dollhouse porch.
It fit with a smooth, oiled click.
He turned it once to the right.
Crank.
From deep within the wooden walls of the dollhouse, a tiny spring wound tight. Then, with a soft, metallic chime, a music box began to play.
The exact melody Lily had been singing on the stairs.
Little bird upon the bough…
As the music played, a hidden panel in the floor of the dollhouse’s attic slid open with a faint hiss of compressed air. A tiny, folded square of paper dropped down from the dark interior space, landing softly on the miniature hardwood floor of the second-floor nursery.
Nathaniel reached inside the dollhouse door, his fingers trembling as he picked up the tiny piece of paper. He unfolded it.
Inside was written a single line of handwriting—neat, precise, and unmistakably female, written in dark purple ink that hadn't faded with time:
“You locked me out of her life, Nathaniel. Now let me show you how it feels to live in the dark.”
Nathaniel stared at the words, the room spinning violently around him.
The handwriting wasn't Grace’s. It wasn't a ghost’s.
May you like
It belonged to Elena Vance.
Marcus Vance’s late wife—who had died in the exact same car crash that took Grace’s life three years ago.
