When I mentioned it to Mike later — half-joking, like “Hey, what’s behind the mystery door at the end of the hall?” — he didn’t even glance up from seasoning the salmon.

“Just storage,” he said, with the easy tone of someone answering a trivia question.

That was it. Just storage.

I let it go.

But Rocky didn’t.

From that very first night, the dog’s fascination with the door was impossible to miss. Every time we walked down the hall, he’d pause, tail wagging uncertainly, nose twitching like he smelled something I couldn’t. Sometimes he’d whine softly, his gaze fixed on the door as though it were calling to him.

“Come on, buddy,” Mike would say firmly, tugging him away.