It didn’t take long for me to notice something strange about the house. Everyone kept referring to the maid—“that old woman,” they’d say. Kind. Quiet. Practically invisible.

But the woman I saw was nothing like that.

She was young. Striking. Hair the color of red wine, eyes filled with secrets and something darker. Her uniform hugged her frame, her movements slow, deliberate—too deliberate.

She caught me staring more than once. And each time, she’d smile. Like she knew I was the only one who saw her this way.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” she asked once, dusting a table that was already spotless. She didn’t look at me when she said it.

I hesitated. “You... you don’t look old.”

She turned, finally meeting my eyes. Her smile was laced with sadness, mystery, and something teasing. “Of course not. Not everyone sees the truth. But you do. That’s... curious.”

The room fell quiet as she walked toward me, close enough for her presence to swallow the space between us.

“Careful,” she said softly, voice like silk. “People who see too much... tend to feel too much.”

And I couldn’t tell if she was warning me—or daring me.