The envelope crinkled in my hand as I stood in the narrow hallway of Maria’s house. I had come here to personally deliver an invitation to my maid, something I never thought I’d be doing on a Wednesday afternoon. Her house was neat, modest, with a faint smell of lavender lingering in the air. As she led me inside, I couldn’t shake off the feeling of unease that had settled in my stomach.
My eyes wandered to the wall on the left, and my heart seized up. There, displayed meticulously, were 23 photos—pictures of my life, my family. Each moment, captured, framed, and hung with care. I recognized them all: my daughter’s graduation, our last Thanksgiving, and even a candid shot of my wife and me at a charity gala.
“You have a lovely family,” Maria remarked, breaking the silence. Her voice was calm, almost too calm. I turned to her, searching for any hint of malice or intention, but her expression was as serene as ever.
I swallowed hard, trying to maintain my composure. The invitation inside the envelope felt trivial now compared to this bewildering discovery. The date on it—March 12, 2023—seemed to blur as my mind raced back to each of those photographed moments, now feeling strangely exposed.
“I didn’t know you were such an avid photographer,” I replied, attempting to mask my suspicion with a smile.
Maria chuckled softly, “Oh, I’m not. I just treasure memories.”
Her words hung in the air, and I couldn’t help but wonder what else she treasured that belonged to me. Was this simply admiration, or something deeper, more unsettling?
Read more on the next page ⬇️⬇️⬇️
