Chapter 2 — The Hotel’s First Secrets

Ivy

The creak of the staircase under her boots reminded Ivy of another reason she loved historic hotels: the way they seemed to breathe, as though alive with the weight of their stories. She adjusted the strap of her leather satchel as she reached the top floor, the salty breeze from the open windows below still lingering faintly in the air.

The hallway above felt different—quieter, almost reverent. While the lower floors hummed with the energy of guests and staff moving about, this level wore its stillness like a well-worn coat. The muted gray walls absorbed the light, and faded maritime paintings lined the corridor, their stormy seas and shipwrecks casting restless shadows that seemed to shift with her movements.

It wasn’t just the quiet that unsettled her—it was the sense that the space was holding its breath, waiting for something. Ivy slowed her pace as she approached Room 201. It wasn’t the polished brass number plate that caught her attention, but a faint draft brushing across her ankles, cool and deliberate, as though beckoning her closer.

Crouching, Ivy ran her fingers over the smooth wooden floorboards, hunting for gaps or cracks. Nothing. But as her gaze traveled upward, she saw it—a thin, vertical seam in the wall between two of the paintings. It was subtle—so subtle that anyone not attuned to hidden things might have missed it. The plaster along the seam looked rougher, less aged than the surrounding wall, like a patch covering something meant to be forgotten.

Excitement coursed through her, and her fingers lingered over the edge, tracing the line as if the wall might yield its secrets through touch alone.

The sound of footsteps made her jump.

"Find what you’re looking for, Ms. Harrington?"

The voice, smooth and measured, startled her. Ivy turned sharply to see Ethan standing a few feet away, a tray with a single cup of tea balanced in his hands. His gray-blue eyes glinted, the faint smudge of paint near his wrist barely noticeable against the crisp tailoring of his button-up sleeves.

"Oh, just admiring the decor," she said breezily, brushing nonexistent dust from her jeans as she straightened. "You’ve got quite the collection of moody oceans up here."

Ethan raised an eyebrow, his expression unreadable as he set the tray on a small side table near the window. "Clara’s late husband favored them. He believed they captured the spirit of the coast."

Ivy tilted her head, curiosity sparking. "And what about you? Do you see the ocean the same way?"

His fingers hovered near the rim of the teacup before retreating. "I think the ocean reflects whatever you bring to it. Tranquility, chaos... longing. It’s never just one thing."

The simplicity of his answer caught her off guard, disarming in its depth. For a moment, she imagined Ethan at the shore, watching the waves roll in, and wondered what he saw in them.

"That’s... poetic," Ivy said, recovering her usual tone. "Though maybe you’re deflecting because you don’t want to answer my real question."

His eyes sharpened. "And what’s your real question, Ms. Harrington?"

"Why is there a draft coming from this wall?" She gestured casually toward the seam with an open palm, her tone light but her gaze intent.

Ethan didn’t flinch, but his posture shifted—the slight tightening of his shoulders, the weight of his stance shifting fractionally as though bracing himself.

He stepped closer, folding his arms across his chest. "I thought you were here to write about the hotel’s charm, not its architecture."

Ivy grinned, savoring the irritation creeping into his voice. "Well, I can’t help it. When something feels off, I tend to dig deeper. Occupational hazard, I suppose."

"Maybe some things are better left alone," he replied, his tone careful, though his gaze flicked—just briefly—toward the seam in the wall.

"That’s a strange thing to say for someone working in a hotel with this much history," she said, leaning back slightly against the wall, her fingers brushing the seam again as if testing it. "Don’t you think guests would love to hear about the hidden details, the stories these walls have seen?"

Ethan’s lips twitched into something resembling a smile, though it held more wariness than amusement. "Guests come here to feel at peace, not to dig up ghosts."

"Ghosts, huh?" Ivy said, her tone light but probing. "You make it sound like there’s something worth digging up."

Ethan reached for the tea tray, his movements measured, deliberate. "Enjoy your stay, Ms. Harrington. And be careful—sometimes curiosity gets people into trouble."

Ivy opened her mouth to fire back another quip, but he was already walking away, his even steps echoing faintly down the staircase.

She exhaled, her hand brushing over her messy bun as her thoughts raced. That wasn’t just professional protectiveness—there had been something personal in the way he’d deflected. A vulnerability. Or a secret.

Whatever it was, it only made her more determined to find out what lay beyond that wall.

---

Later that evening, as the hotel settled into its quiet nighttime rhythm, Ivy wandered into the library on the second floor. The faint scent of aged leather and ink welcomed her, the ambiance heavy with the weight of untold stories. She pulled a dusty guest registry from a nearby shelf, its leather binding worn smooth by time and use. Clara had mentioned the hotel kept meticulous records of its visitors. Maybe, just maybe, they held a clue about the history of Room 201—or the elusive draft.

The pages crackled faintly as she turned them, her finger trailing down the elegant cursive entries. Names, dates, and occasional notes about professions or reasons for staying blurred together until her eyes snagged on one in particular: Amelia Deighton.

The notation beside her name read, "Extended stay—Room 201."

Her brow furrowed. She flipped forward a few pages and found the name again, this time accompanied by another: Thomas Mercer. The note beside his name was brief—"Frequent visitor"—but Ivy’s instincts hummed. Thomas Mercer. Amelia Deighton. There was a weight to their entries, the kind of quiet significance that tugged at the edges of a story begging to be told.

A faint squeak of a floorboard behind her made her turn, her pulse quickening. But it was only Clara, leaning casually in the doorway with a steaming mug in hand.

"Burning the midnight oil already, are we?" Clara said, her tone warm but her sharp eyes taking in the open registry.

"Just some light reading," Ivy replied, closing the book quickly, as if she’d been caught sneaking out past curfew.

Clara chuckled, crossing the room to sit in the leather armchair across from her. "You remind me of my husband sometimes," she said, her voice softening. "He was always poking his nose where it didn’t belong, convinced every shadow hid a story worth telling."

"Was he wrong?" Ivy asked, genuinely curious.

Clara sipped her tea, her expression thoughtful. "Not always. But the stories he found weren’t always what he expected. Some weren’t kind—or easy to carry."

The words settled over Ivy like a warning. She hesitated, debating whether to press further, but Clara’s gaze softened into something closer to a smile.

"Be careful with your digging, Ivy," Clara said gently. "The past has a way of tangling people up in ways they can’t always untangle."

With that, Clara stood and left the library, leaving Ivy alone with her thoughts—and the faint mystery of names scrawled in ink decades ago.

Ivy glanced at the registry one last time, her finger lingering on "Amelia Deighton" before she closed the book with a quiet snap.

Somewhere above her, the seam in the wall waited.

Tomorrow, she thought. Tomorrow, I’ll figure it out.