When my mother passed away, my world fell apart. She wasn’t just my mom; she was my anchor. Without her, I was adrift in a storm of grief and bills that piled up faster than I could handle.

I spent countless nights scrolling through job postings. “Experience required.” “Degree preferred.” Each rejection chipped away at my hope.

“Come on, Sarah,” I whispered to myself.

Then, one day, a thick envelope arrived.

The Harrisons?

I’d never heard of them, but the letter inside offered a job as a nanny for their eight-year-old son, Lucas. It felt like a miracle.

***

When I arrived at the Harrison estate, its grandeur was overwhelming—perfect gardens, towering doors, everything so pristine it felt unreal.

“You must be Sarah,” a sharp voice broke my thoughts.

I turned to see a stunning woman descending the steps.

“I’m Veronica,” she said curtly. “Come in.”

The house’s gleaming marble floors and sparkling chandeliers gave it the feel of a museum rather than a home.

“This way,” Veronica said briskly.

Lucas, my charge, stood by the staircase, clutching a book.

“Hi,” he mumbled, barely glancing up when prompted.

“Lucas isn’t much for talking,” Veronica said, brushing him off.

She continued outlining the rules.

“And one more thing,” she said, stopping abruptly. “The third floor is off-limits. That’s where the grandmother lives. She values her privacy.”

I nodded, but her tone made me uneasy.

At dinner, I met Richard, Lucas’s father, a kind-eyed man who looked older than his years.

“Lucas has mentioned you,” he said warmly.

“Has he?” I asked, glancing at Lucas as he pushed broccoli around his plate.

“He’s observant,” Richard said with a small smile.

Then there was Oliver, Richard’s eldest son, “just visiting for a while.”

That night, as I settled into my room, I couldn’t shake the feeling that the house held secrets that were tied to the forbidden third floor.

***

While tidying Lucas’s room one afternoon, I stumbled upon a dusty old photo album tucked away at the back of his closet. Its leather cover was cracked and worn as if it had been forgotten for years.

My curiosity got the better of me, and I carefully opened it, flipping through the pages.

The photographs were full of happy moments: Richard as a young man, his arm around a lovely woman who must be his first wife. Beside them was little Oliver grinning at the camera.

My lips curved into a small smile, but as I turned the next page, my heart stopped.