No one knew how long the wardrobe had stood at the end of the hall.

It was black as a moonless night, carved with roses that seemed to bloom and wither depending on the light. The wood smelled of old forests and something sweeter — something that had no name in any language Mara knew.

She had inherited it from her grandmother. Along with the house, the silence, and the key.

"Never open it after midnight," the letter had said. "Unless you are ready to stay."

Mara had laughed then. She was not laughing now.

It was half past twelve when the wardrobe began to glow.

Not brightly — just a thin line of gold along the door's edge, like a candle burning on the other side. Like something alive, breathing slowly in the dark. She pressed her palm flat against the wood and felt it — warm, almost tender, like skin.

The key was in her hand before she realized she had reached for it.

Inside, there were no coats. No shelves. No back wall.

There was a forest. Moonlit and silver, with roses growing black along the path. Ravens watched from twisted branches. Rose petals fell upward, defying everything she had ever believed about the world.

And at the end of the path — a light.

Come, it seemed to whisper. You were always meant to find this.

Mara stepped inside.

The wardrobe door closed softly behind her.

And in the hall, the key fell to the floor — and stayed there, cold and forgotten, until morning came and no one was left to find it.