Sophie's Choice

I wander the halls often. Patrolling, passing by the darkest part of the house. The attic looms there—locked, sealed, and silent. No one goes near it anymore. The Board forbids anyone from stepping within six feet of the door. Only the dead are permitted access.

That was the rule Sophie wrote in the charter herself.

The Board of Advisors—handpicked by her trusted allies—was assembled to keep things in order, to help her maintain focus. For the longest time, Sophie would not come in. Says the place feels haunted.

She isn’t wrong.

These days, I've been finding her in the kitchen. Not eating. Just standing there, barefoot on cold tile, staring at the ceiling. Eyes vacant. As if she’s trying to remember something she never wanted to forget.

Something is eating away at Sophie. I know because she’s been asking too many questions. About protocol. Access. Who’s been near the attic. Who’s been talking about it.

She says it’s about tightening security. But I know her.


I know her too well.

I’ve read a page—just one—of her diary. It wasn’t meant for me, but I did it out of concern. What I saw was guilt, etched into every word.

"Does he hate me?" she wrote.
"Does he even know I love him? Or that I did this for him?"

She wonders what kind of man He’s becoming.

She doesn’t write His name. Maybe she’s afraid that if she does, He’ll remember.

Her truth has warped under the weight of her need to be right. But the attic doesn’t pick sides.

And neither do I.

She's unraveling. So much so that she has created a way into the attic.

The portal—Sophie’s masterpiece— is a one-way design. The kind of innovation that demands a cost. When she shut the door, it was like caging a star. The light inside wasn’t just illumination. It was memory. Emotion. Will.

The air near the attic pulsed, just below hearing. Like a heartbeat under water.

Yesterday, Sophie stood in front of it. I watched her from the hall mirror. She raised her hand, fingers just inches from the handle. Her other hand clutched something—old and bulky. Her diary.

She didn’t open it. Not yet. But her lips moved. A name, maybe. Or a prayer.

She doesn’t know I’ve been watching. But I think part of her suspects.

Tonight, she came back. Alone.

No guards. No advisors. Just Sophie and the door.


And the key.

She walked past me. Didn’t speak. Her eyes were glass, floating on tears that wouldn’t fall.

When she turned the lock, it screamed.

She opened the door.

The attic light wasn’t harsh or golden—it was soft. Familiar. Like a memory you’ve kept tucked beneath your ribs. It slipped past her shoulders, brushing her hair.

Then the whispers began.

Echoes. Laughter. A lullaby in reverse.

Sophie dropped the diary. Pages fluttered. I stepped closer.

Inside, I saw Him.

No longer a child. Taller. His eyes carried the same grief as hers. But where hers had faded into silence, His sharpened into clarity.

“You left me,” He said. "How could you do that?"

Sophie tried to speak, but her throat clenched around the apology.

He stepped forward, not from the attic—but out of her.

That’s when I understood.

The attic wasn't a place.

It was a part of her.

The secrets weren’t locked away in wood and metal, but in bone and flesh. It had buried Him inside her. A sacrifice to ambition. A mother’s guilt cast into the dark.

The light poured around them now, reshaping the hallway, turning darkness into hope. The advisors were gone. The house was hollow.

Sophie reached for Him. “I tried to protect you. I didn't want for you to travel the same hard road.”

He looked past her, into me.

“No,” He said. "I don't accept that. If you asked me what I would have wanted, I would have wanted to do this with you. Not alone.”

And then he walked back into the light.


Without hesitation, Sophie followed.

The door closed.

I waited. One minute. Ten.

She never came back.

Now I patrol the halls alone.

The attic is locked once more. But something’s changed. The house has changed. Not peaceful—just... an energy of uncertainty.

I read the diary again, in full this time.

She left a final line.

"If the door opens, let it stay. Some things are not meant to be locked away."