Secrets of the white wardrobe

And there it was, a sliding door. Did I see that right? I pushed aside the soft cotton shirts, feeling the cool fabric brush against my skin. A barely visible gap awaited my fingers to slide the panel open. How could we have missed that all these years?

But it was so inconspicuous. Well, it must be, as even my husband, who had had clothes hanging in that cupboard for the last ten years, had not spotted it. “Dear, do you know there's a door at the back of your wardrobe?”

“Hmm…”

His usual, detached response made my jaw clench. Can he not show any interest in what I say? “Dear, you are not paying attention…look here…a door behind your shirts.”

He walked over, barely peering behind his shirts as he continued texting on his phone. I pulled the shirts aside, but the door had vanished. I pressed the panels on the back, but nothing happened. The groove for the fingers had disappeared. Did I imagine this?

“Yes, dear. A door. Let us open it…oh, hmm, but how?” He chuckled and ruffled my hair, as if I were the dog.

My fists tightened. “You think I’m being silly! I will show you I’m not!”

I kept checking regularly, but the little sliding door remained elusive. After a few days, I blamed it on watching too many fantasies shows on TV.

A month passed without incident. One day, as I was about to hang an ironed shirt, I heard a faint click and a sigh. Temptation prompted me to push away the shirts to look at the back panel. This time, the door was slightly ajar. I tugged at it, but it resisted, feeling like many things that are stuck after years of neglect.

The sight of the door, slightly ajar, rekindled my curiosity. The white cupboard, a built-in fixture of our walk-in wardrobe, stood elegantly against the wall. To prevent dust from settling on the clothes—a lesson learned from past experiences—we had installed sliding doors in front of each panel. Each door boasted a striking white finish, seamlessly blending with the room's décor. Though the back panels remained untouched, they were regularly wiped and kept clean. The discovery of a hidden sliding door at the back was, indeed, intriguing.

As I managed to slide the door open, my fingers trembling with anticipation, a small envelope tumbled out. It was yellowed with age and bore a faint scent of lavender. I picked it up, my curiosity piqued. The handwriting was familiar, elegant, and instantly recognizable—his aunt's, yima’s. My heart raced as I called out, “Daniel, get here right now!”

Complaining, he sauntered in. I handed the letter to him. His eyes widened as he read it, revealing that it detailed how, upon her death, everything would go to him. It also instructed him to go to her home and search for a file with his name in the top drawer at her desk.

"But she's not dead," he muttered, more to himself than to me. Without another word, he rushed to the phone to call his aunt. After a few rings, a voice answered, not his aunt's but her carer's.

"I'm so sorry," the carer said, her voice thick with emotion. "She passed away about half an hour ago."

We stood there in stunned silence, the weight of the moment pressing down on us. The whole experience was strange, almost surreal. How did the letter arrive here, hidden in a place we had never noticed? How was the timing so eerily perfect, coinciding with her death? And how had we failed to see the sliding door all these years?

My mind raced with questions. I couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to this than mere coincidence. Was there some unseen force at play? Or perhaps a secret she had kept hidden for all these years? The letter, the timing, the hidden door—it all felt like pieces of a puzzle that we were just beginning to uncover.

My husband, usually so dismissive of my whims, now shared my determination. We decided to start by examining the letter more closely. Under the bedside lamp, we scrutinized every detail—the handwriting, the paper, and even the faint scent of lavender that lingered. There was something hauntingly beautiful about it, a relic of a bygone era.

"Perhaps there's a clue in the letter itself," he murmured, his brow furrowed in concentration.

We read the letter again, slowly this time, searching for anything that might explain the mystery. But nothing came of it.

The next day, we made our way to her old house near Tanglin Halt, a place filled with memories and echoes of the past. The carer, though still grieving, welcomed us with understanding. She led us to his aunt's study, a room that felt frozen in time.

My husband’s aunt used to teach at Toa Payoh Primary School and before long became the principal there till she retired. She was strict but caring, doting on kids since she had none of her own. She lost her husband very early in her life. Daniel was her favorite nephew, as his mother was her best friend and closest sister. They shared many confidences that lasted till she died ten years ago. That was when we moved into the apartment we lived in now.

As we sifted through her things in the file labeled "DANIEL," we came across a faded photograph. It showed a young woman—his aunt—standing with his mother. In the background, a familiar figure was visible—a man with a knowing smile.

"Who is he?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

"He was the carpenter yima sent to help us when we moved to our current place," my husband replied, his eyes narrowing with confusion. There was no further explanation or information other than legalities concerning his inheritance.

After paying our respects, we returned home. I decided to check the back of the cupboard again. The sliding door was still open. I pushed my hand as far into the gap as I could and groped around.

I felt something. “Daniel, look at what I found.”

This time he rushed into the room, eager to find out more. He unfolded yellowing, creased, sheets of paper. It was a very long letter written by his yima in her beautiful handwriting.

We discovered that the man in the photograph was his aunt's lover. Their love had to remain hidden, dictated by the times and circumstances. She had harbored a hope that her nephew would one day uncover her secret past, her love, and the sacrifices she had made. The letter was her final act of love, a promise that Daniel would be the guardian of her most cherished memories.

The sliding door was a special mechanism designed by her lover, who was a skilled craftsman. It was meant to reveal the hidden compartment only when the time was right—upon her passing. The timing of finding the letter and her death was no coincidence. It was a final, orchestrated gesture from beyond the grave.

Daniel looked at me through tear-glazed eyes. “How much effort she went through to hide and yet share her beautiful love story with me,” he said, his voice trembling with emotion.

He reached out his hand to me, and I slid mine into his, feeling the warmth and connection between us. The secrets of the white wardrobe were finally revealed, leaving us both with a deeper understanding of love's enduring power.

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