When Claire moved into her new apartment, she loved everything about it — the high ceilings, the sunlight through the windows, even the tiny balcony with just enough space for two chairs. But the bathroom always felt… odd.
One evening, as she scrubbed the floor, she noticed a tile near the bathtub shift under her hand. Curious, she pressed harder. It wobbled.
The next day, with a screwdriver in hand, Claire carefully pried it loose. Dust and plaster crumbled away — and behind the tile, she saw something wedged into the wall.
It was an envelope.
Her heart raced as she pulled it out. Inside were photographs — black-and-white images of people she didn’t recognize, all standing in the very same bathroom decades earlier. Their faces were solemn, eyes fixed on the camera.
But it wasn’t just the photos. Stuffed in the back was a small leather-bound diary. Claire flipped through the brittle pages, her hands trembling. The entries spoke of someone hiding, someone afraid, someone who wrote about “watching through the cracks”.
The last page ended abruptly:
“If you find this, it means the truth is still here. Don’t trust the landlord.”
Claire dropped the book, her pulse thundering in her ears. She had signed a lease with that landlord just weeks ago.
Suddenly, the bathroom no longer felt like just a bathroom. It felt like a secret someone had tried to bury — and a warning that was never meant for her eyes.
