The morning after their tense conversation, Daniel awoke to the smell of coffee wafting from the kitchen. For a brief moment, everything felt normal—mundane, even. But as he sat up and rubbed the sleep from his eyes, the memory of Elena's sharp words and trembling hands resurfaced.
He descended the stairs cautiously, the creak of each step echoing in the quiet house. Elena was at the counter, her back to him, pouring coffee into two mugs. She hummed softly, a melody he didn't recognize. The pendant still hung around her neck, catching the morning light like a beacon.
"Morning," he said, his voice tentative.
She turned, her smile warm but her eyes tired. "Morning, love. Sleep well?"
"Not really." He pulled out a chair at the small kitchen table and sat down, watching her closely.
She brought over the coffee, setting a mug in front of him before taking a seat across the table. "I'm sorry about last night," she said quietly. "I didn't mean to snap at you."
Daniel took a sip, the bitterness grounding him. "It's okay. But... I meant what I said, Elena. If there's something I need to know—"
"There isn't," she interrupted, her voice firm. Then, softening, she added, "Can we just focus on us? On being happy?"
Daniel studied her, the words lingering on his tongue. He wanted to push, to demand answers, but her pleading expression stopped him.
"Okay," he said finally. "For now."
That day, Daniel decided to distract himself by tackling mundane chores. He ventured into the attic to unpack some of the boxes that had been left there since they moved in. Dust motes floated in the beams of sunlight streaming through the small window as he opened a box labeled Elena—Personal.
He hesitated. These were her belongings—memories from a life she'd lived before they met. He felt a pang of guilt but couldn't ignore the curiosity gnawing at him.
Inside, he found a stack of journals, old photographs, and trinkets. The photographs caught his attention first. They were of Elena, younger but unmistakably her. She was smiling in some, somber in others. But in every photo, she wore the same pendant.
One picture stood out. Elena stood beside an older man, their expressions grave. Behind them was a stone archway etched with strange symbols. The pendant seemed to gleam unnaturally in the black-and-white photograph.
Daniel turned the photo over. Scrawled on the back were the words:
"The Crossing, 1999."
He frowned. Elena would have been in her early twenties then. The date didn't seem significant, but the location—the archway—sent a shiver down his spine.
That evening, he brought the photograph downstairs, hiding it in his pocket until the right moment. Elena was curled up on the couch, a book in her lap, the fire casting a warm glow over the room.
"Elena," he began, sitting beside her.
"Hmm?"
"I found something in the attic."
She looked up, her expression neutral. "What were you doing in the attic?"
"Unpacking. I came across one of your boxes."
Her gaze sharpened. "Which box?"
He pulled out the photograph, holding it up. "This one caught my eye."
Elena's face paled, her fingers tightening around the book. "You shouldn't go through my things."
"Elena, who is this man? And what is 'The Crossing'?"
She stood abruptly, pacing to the fireplace. "You had no right to look at that."
"I had every right," Daniel countered, standing as well. "I'm your husband, Elena. You can't keep shutting me out."
Her shoulders sagged, and for a moment, she looked impossibly small. "He was... someone I knew a long time ago. The Crossing was... a place we visited. That's all."
"That's not all," Daniel pressed. "The look on your face tells me there's more."
She turned to him, her eyes blazing. "Why can't you just let it go?!"
"Because I can't keep living in the dark!"
The room fell silent, the crackling fire the only sound between them. Elena's chest rose and fell with each heavy breath. Finally, she whispered, "The man in the photo... he was the one who gave me this pendant."
"Why?"
"It's complicated," she said, her voice trembling.
"Then simplify it," Daniel urged, stepping closer.
She hesitated, her hands gripping the edge of the mantel. "It's a protection charm."
"Protection from what?"
Her silence spoke volumes.
That night, Daniel couldn't sleep. He lay beside Elena, her back to him, the pendant still glowing faintly in the dark.
The word protection echoed in his mind. Protection from what? From who?
At midnight, a faint sound stirred him from his thoughts. A whisper—soft and indistinct. He sat up, straining to listen. The sound grew louder, emanating from downstairs.
"Elena?" he whispered, but she didn't stir.
He slipped out of bed, moving quietly down the hall. The sound led him to the living room. The fire had long since died, leaving the room in shadow.
And there, in the center of the room, was the ornate box he'd opened in the attic.
The lid was ajar.
Heart pounding, Daniel knelt beside it. Inside was one of Elena's journals. The pages were covered in strange symbols, interspersed with fragmented sentences:
"The price must be paid."
"No escape once the vow is taken."
"The watchers see all."
Daniel's blood ran cold.
"What are you doing?"
He spun around to see Elena standing in the doorway, her silhouette framed by the faint glow of the hallway light.
"I... I heard something," he stammered.
Her gaze flickered to the box, then back to him. "You shouldn't have come down here."
"Elena, what's going on?" he demanded, standing. "What aren't you telling me?"
She stepped closer, her expression unreadable. "You've opened a door you weren't meant to."
"What door? What does that mean?"
"You need to trust me," she said, her voice soft but firm. "Some truths... they're better left buried."
Daniel shook his head. "I can't. Not when I know there's something you're hiding. Not when it's this big."
Elena's eyes glistened, and for the first time, Daniel saw fear in them.
"If you dig too deep, Daniel," she whispered, "you might not like what you find."