Through the Keyhole

The old keyhole was small, almost invisible to an untrained eye. But to Lina, it was a window into a world she was never meant to see.

Every night, when the moonlight slid through the cracks of her grandmother’s house, she’d kneel before that ancient wooden door—the one everyone said led to nothing. A room sealed for fifty years.

Her grandmother warned her, “Never look through the keyhole, child. Some memories are locked away for a reason.”

But curiosity is louder than fear.

And that night, as the clock struck midnight, Lina pressed her eye against the cold brass circle.

At first, she saw nothing. Only darkness, dust, and silence thick as sleep. Then—a flicker. A candle. And beside it, a figure in a long white dress.

Lina froze. The figure wasn’t still—it was moving, swaying, as if caught in a dance.

A slow waltz.

To no music.

She wanted to scream, but her throat tightened. Her breath fogged the metal. She blinked—and the candlelight vanished.


The next morning, Lina asked her grandmother, “What’s inside that room?”

Her grandmother’s hands trembled. “Ghosts of the past,” she whispered, her voice distant. “And one that wears a white dress.”

Lina’s stomach turned.

She wanted to ask more, but the old woman’s eyes had drifted to the window—lost somewhere far beyond time.


Days passed, but the door kept calling to her. Like a heartbeat behind the wood. Like whispers in her dreams.

Then one stormy night, lightning flashed—and the door creaked open.

Just a little.

Enough for Lina to slip inside.


The room smelled of wilted roses and rain. Dust floated like snowflakes in the candlelight. And there, in the corner, stood a mirror.

Not just any mirror—this one was draped in lace, the fabric yellowed with age. Lina lifted it.

And gasped.

Inside the mirror, she didn’t see her reflection. She saw her grandmother. Younger. Laughing. Spinning in a white dress.

A man’s hands held hers. A man with sharp eyes and a tender smile.

Then, suddenly, the man turned—and his expression shifted to something darker.

He whispered something Lina couldn’t hear. Her grandmother in the reflection began to cry.

The image flickered. The man disappeared. The grandmother fell to the floor, clutching her chest.

And the mirror cracked.

Lina stumbled back, heart pounding.

Then, from behind her, came a soft voice:

“You looked through the keyhole… didn’t you?”

Lina turned slowly.

Her grandmother stood at the doorway. Pale. Shaking. Eyes filled with tears.

“I told you never to open that room,” she said.

“I—Grandma, I saw you! I saw him! Who was—”

Her grandmother raised a trembling hand. “He was the reason I locked this room. The reason I kept the key hidden for fifty years.”

Lina swallowed. “What happened to him?”

For a long moment, the old woman said nothing. Then she whispered, “He was the man I loved… and the man who left me the night before our wedding.”

Her voice broke. “I locked everything away. The dress. The memories. The mirror. I thought if I sealed it, he’d vanish from my heart. But pain,” she looked up, “doesn’t disappear through a keyhole. It waits for someone to open the door again.”

Lina’s eyes filled. “I didn’t mean to—”

“I know,” her grandmother said softly. “But perhaps it’s time I opened it myself.”


She walked slowly to the mirror, running her fingers over the crack. “Do you see this?” she whispered. “This is what happens when love breaks before time does.”

Then she smiled faintly. “But maybe you helped me remember the good, not just the grief.”

Lina stepped closer. “You can let it go now, Grandma.”

Her grandmother nodded. “Yes. And when I do, promise me something.”

“What?”

“Never be afraid to look through the keyhole of your own heart. What’s hidden is often what heals you.”


That night, Lina watched her grandmother take the white dress from the closet and hang it by the window. The moonlight kissed the silk, making it glow.

By morning, the old woman was gone—peacefully, in her sleep.

The door stood open.

The keyhole, empty.

Lina placed the cracked mirror beside her grandmother’s photograph and whispered, “I looked through the keyhole, and I found your story.”

She smiled through her tears.

“Now it’s mine to tell.”