The Fourth Door

Mila Rodriguez wasn't someone who usually attracted trouble. She was that dependable heart of the office, the one people went to when the printer was out of paper or when Carol from accounting needed reassurance after too many Facebook rants. But that Tuesday was different. It wasn't the meeting fiasco or the Botched Bagel Breakfast that unnerved her. It was the door. On the thirty-third floor of Larson Corporation, the hallway had three doors— that's what everyone told her, and she'd believed it. But on that crisp Tuesday morning, after an overenthusiastic janitor spilled mop water near the elevator, Mila noticed a fourth. "You've got to be kidding," she muttered under her breath, peering closer. The door was faintly mesmerizing, not quite fitting with the sterile office aesthetics. Maybe she'd overheard too many after-work happy hour ghost stories, but she couldn't resist. She took a tentative step closer. Mila's innate curiosity tugged harder than usual, her heart thudding louder with every step. Edging closer, she saw a tarnished brass handle covered with engravings she'd never seen before. Tentative, she reached it—and for a moment, nothing happened. "Hey, Mila! You coming?" Jamal from IT snapped her back. She jumped, hoping he hadn't noticed her half-dazed stare at the bewildering door. "Yeah, right behind ya!" But as Jamal turned away, Mila stole one last glance. The handle seemed alive for a second, like it knew her store of hidden secrets. But then manager meetings, project deadlines, and tasks took quick hold of her day, blurring hours into tedium. That nagging curiosity refused to die by the time Friday rolled around. "Do you ever wonder," Mila began during a lunch break with Cassie, her best friend and seasoned skeptic, "about things just being… off?" Cassie's eyes flickered over her Pilates mat. "On this floor, sure. System problems are permanent residents." "No, like that," Mila pointed toward the hallway, "A fourth door kind of off." Cassie's brow furrowed. "Mila, honey, you're imagining. There's no fourth door." Staring at the hallway, though, she saw it. And Cassie… didn't. Something screamed in her that there was more to discover. After work, when no one lingered longer than necessary, Mila stayed. Heart as loud as a breaktime alarm, she slipped back, steady breaths calming her nerves. Alone now, the fourth door shimmered, yearning for its story to be told. One step, another, hand finding the brass cool against her palm. Hesitation lasted only a beat longer; the door gave in with a push. What lay beyond wasn't monumental magic. Instead, an antechamber—a place of filing cabinets and dust, drenched in strange ethereal light—awaited. Photos plastered walls, timelines chronicled oddities, colorful threads weaving connections, and—wiriiir—Mila screamed. "Sorry, didn't think anyone was curious enough to join us," a young woman said, notebook in hand. "Who even!" Mila exhaled. "Belinda. From internal investigations," the woman said as casually as if they were bumping into each other during a morning coffee run. Belinda winked. "Think of this like the valve that keeps us sane here. Keep things real." Mila understood. "What happens when you've discovered something, well, really bad?" she asked, heart quieter but unsure. "We assess, document, move," Belinda replied, a flicker of caution on her face. "You're taking up the valiant mission?" Mila didn't plan on it. Yet, as she mulled over unspoken darkness within the walls, the weight bore heavy. By Monday, hushed whispers darted between meetings. People noticed missing figures. Different air. She was back at the fourth door when Belinda's stillness filled the space. "We've moved on now, Mila. Back to normal." But Mila saw differently. Exhaling sharply yet with resolve, Mila turned back to her trusted companions, her colleagues, concealing secrets behind warm smiles and gentle souls. No one would remember, but her instincts had awakened. "How do you close a chapter," she asked herself, "if you can't even imagine closing the book?" Mila didn't need everything to stay captivating on the floor; she just needed to feel real, to be true, not alone. A detective of her own making—a guide within unfamiliar territory.