CHAPTER 6 — THE HIDDEN MUSIC ROOM
CHAPTER 6 — THE HIDDEN MUSIC ROOM
The east wing had been closed for three years.
No one lived there anymore.
As Dante led the way through the silent corridors, dust floated through the beams of our flashlights. White sheets covered antique furniture like forgotten ghosts, and every footstep echoed across the polished hardwood floor.
Marco walked beside me, his pistol drawn.
Behind us, four armed guards scanned every doorway.
No one spoke.
The old wing felt frozen in time.
Finally, Dante stopped in front of a pair of mahogany double doors.
A tarnished brass plaque still hung beside them.
MUSIC ROOM
Someone had tried to remove it years ago, leaving only deep scratches in the wood.
"This room was sealed after Elena's funeral," Dante said quietly.
"I couldn't bear to hear the piano anymore."
Marco examined the heavy chain wrapped around the handles.
"It's still locked."
Dante pulled a ring of keys from his pocket.
"I never gave anyone access."
The lock clicked open.
The chain fell to the floor with a metallic clang.
For a long moment, no one moved.
Then Dante slowly pushed the doors inward.
A rush of stale air spilled into the hallway.
The room beyond was enormous.
Moonlight poured through tall windows draped in faded velvet curtains.
A black grand piano stood in the center of the room, covered by a thick layer of dust.
Music books were still stacked neatly on a shelf.
A child's tiny violin rested on a chair.
Nothing had been touched.
It looked as though Elena had simply stepped out and never returned.
Dante walked inside first.
His eyes swept across the room before settling on the piano.
"She played every evening," he murmured.
"The girls would dance while she sang."
His voice caught for the first time.
"I haven't been in here since the night she died."
No one interrupted him.
Grief had a way of filling every corner of a room.
Marco broke the silence.
"We're looking for a key."
The guards spread out.
They searched bookshelves.
Cabinets.
Drawers.
Behind paintings.
Under rugs.
After nearly twenty minutes, they found nothing.
One guard sighed.
"Maybe the child remembered wrong."
I wasn't listening.
My eyes had settled on the piano.
Not the instrument itself.
The bench.
Unlike everything else in the room, it had almost no dust on it.
Someone had moved it recently.
I walked toward it.
Marco noticed.
"What is it?"
"I don't know."
I placed both hands on the bench and gently slid it aside.
The wood scraped softly across the floor.
Beneath it...
A small brass keyhole was built directly into one of the floorboards.
Everyone stared.
Dante slowly crouched beside it.
"I've lived here for twelve years."
"I never knew this was here."
Marco looked around the room.
"The silver key."
Dante nodded.
"It fits here."
But the key was gone.
Stolen.
A wave of disappointment swept through the room.
Then Sofia's words came back to me.
"Mama told us not to sing."
I looked at the piano.
"Dante."
He turned.
"Did your wife always play the same lullaby?"
He frowned.
"Almost every night."
"Would you play it?"
His eyes narrowed.
"I haven't touched that piano in years."
"I know."
"But please."
For several seconds he didn't move.
Then, almost reluctantly, he sat on the piano bench.
His fingers hovered over the yellowed ivory keys.
The first note echoed through the silent room.
Then another.
Slowly, uncertainly, he began playing the familiar melody.
The lullaby.
The same one my grandmother had sung to me.
As the final note faded...
A faint metallic click echoed beneath the floor.
Everyone froze.
Marco looked down.
"It wasn't the piano."
The click came again.
From beneath the hidden keyhole.
Then, with a deep mechanical rumble, a section of the hardwood floor shifted backward on its own.
A narrow compartment rose slowly from beneath the room.
Inside lay a small wooden box wrapped in faded blue cloth.
Dante carefully lifted it out.
The cloth was embroidered with one word.
Elena.
His hands trembled as he untied the ribbon.
Inside the box were three items.
A silver key.
A leather-bound journal.
And an envelope.
Across the front, written in elegant handwriting, were seven words that stole the breath from everyone in the room.
For Ava... if she ever comes home.
My knees nearly gave out.
"No..."
I whispered.
"That's impossible."
Dante looked at me, then back at the envelope.
"It has your name."
"I've never been here before."
Marco slowly reached for the letter.
"Only one way to find out."
Before anyone could open it—
A deafening explosion ripped through the east wing.
The floor lurched violently beneath our feet.
Glass shattered in every direction.
The lights went out.
The force of the blast threw all of us to the ground.
Smoke poured into the room from the hallway.
Marco grabbed his radio.
"Report!"
Only static answered.
Then came a terrified voice through the smoke.
"The nursery!"
A pause.
May you like
Then the words that froze Dante where he stood.
"The twins are gone!"
