The door that never close
Three days before he died, my brother told me he had found a door that shouldn’t exist.
Now I’ve found it too.
And it’s open.
I am a detective — or at least I was supposed to be one of the good ones. A criminology graduate with a psychology background, solving cases was meant to be simple. Interrogate. Observe. Conclude. Move on.
But this case… doesn’t move on.
Black Ford Street became my first real murder investigation. A family slaughtered inside a sealed building. Gunshots. Stab wounds. A survivor who shouldn’t have survived — and a truth he never lived long enough to speak.
Then there was her.
A woman who said nothing… even when silence should have broken her.
No fear. No panic. No guilt.
Just silence that felt wrong.
The more I watched her, the more the case changed. What started as a simple murder investigation turned into surveillance, obsession, and something far more dangerous than evidence — people watching me back.
And somewhere inside it all… a name kept appearing.
Baba Yaga.
A killer who doesn’t just erase lives — but rewrites them.
But the deeper I go, the less certain I become of everything: the suspect… the survivor… even myself.
Because in this world, silence is never empty.
It hides something.
And whatever is behind that door…
was never meant to be found.
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