The Boy Inside the Antique Wardrobe

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The Boy Inside the Antique Wardrobe

When I was little, I had an imaginary friend who lived inside an old, towering antique wardrobe in my bedroom. It had been in the family for generations — heavy, dark wood with ornate carvings, and a strange, lingering scent of something stale and forgotten. I would sit in front of it for hours, whispering through the doors, listening to the muffled voice that whispered back.

I don’t remember what he told me. Only that he told me things. Stories, maybe. Warnings. Secrets. I don’t know. But I do remember his name.

One night at dinner, I casually mentioned him to my dad. My mom barely reacted — she had heard all about my “imaginary friend” before. But my dad froze, his fork clattering against his plate. His face drained of color.

“What did you say his name was?” he asked, his voice oddly tight.

I shrugged. “Peter. Or Patrick. Something like that.”

I’ll never forget the way he looked at my uncle across the table, a silent…