The Forgotten Door in Apartment 3B

When I moved into apartment 3B, I wasn’t expecting magic — just cheaper rent.

The building was old, the kind with peeling paint, dim hallway lights, and a musty smell that clung to the walls like an unwanted tenant. The landlord, Mr. Ahmed, was a quiet man in his 60s who wore the same brown sweater every time I saw him. When he handed me the keys, he paused and said something strange.

“One rule: don’t open the door in the back of the kitchen.”

I chuckled. “A secret door? Sounds like a horror movie.”

He didn’t laugh. “Just leave it alone.”

Naturally, that made me more curious. As soon as I settled in, I searched for it. Behind the fridge, partially hidden by an old wooden shelf, was a small door — no taller than three feet. It had no knob, just a dull bronze lock and a strange carving of an eye. A creepy, watchful eye.

I tried to ignore it for a few days. But something about it unsettled me. At night, when the apartment was silent, I sometimes heard faint whispering — like wind through a crack. One night, during a thunderstorm, I heard it again, clearer this time.

A voice. My voice.

It was younger, lighter, and it said a single word: “Mama.”

I froze. My mother had passed away six years ago. I hadn’t spoken that word in ages.

I pressed my ear against the door. More whispers. Laughter. A lullaby she used to sing to me.

The next day, I bought lockpicks and watched a dozen YouTube tutorials. It took me hours, but eventually, the lock clicked open. As I pulled the door, it didn’t creak — it sighed, like it had been holding its breath for years.

Inside was a narrow hallway filled with a soft golden glow. Floating in the air were hundreds of orbs, each glowing like miniature suns. I stepped inside.

The first orb hovered toward me. Inside it, I saw myself at age seven, riding a bike for the first time while my mother clapped from the sidewalk. I could hear her laughter, feel the wind on my face, the wobble of the handlebars. It was more than a memory — it was alive.

Other orbs floated by. My childhood bedroom. My high school graduation. The day I got accepted into university. I was crying, overwhelmed. I hadn’t felt that in years.

Then the darker orbs came.

These shimmered in dull grey-blue, colder in tone. One showed the night my parents argued, my mother in tears. Another showed my first heartbreak — her back turned, walking away in the rain. The worst was my father’s funeral — the crushing silence, the way I couldn’t cry, even though I wanted to.

I don’t know how long I stayed. Minutes? Hours? Days? Time was strange in that place.

I started visiting the door every night. At first, I only watched the good orbs. But slowly, I found myself revisiting even the painful ones — just to feel something. Anything.

But something began to change. I started forgetting small things. Where I left my keys. My co-worker’s name. I once stood in the grocery store and couldn’t remember what I liked to eat.

One morning, Mr. Ahmed knocked. His expression was grim.

“You’ve been going in,” he said.

I nodded, ashamed.

He opened his palm and showed me a tiny orb — swirling, dim. Inside was the faint image of a young boy. Frozen. Hollow-eyed.

“He lived in 3B in 1983. Got lost in his memories. They took more than he was willing to give.”

I locked the door that day. Nailed it shut. Moved the fridge back in front of it. For a while, things returned to normal.

But even now, some nights, I hear my younger self humming a tune I’d long forgotten. And for a moment, I ache to open the door again.

To remember her laugh. To feel something real.

But I don’t.

Because I know that door doesn’t just show memories.

It takes them.