EPISODE 1

Mark Brown was one of the richest men in the country.

He owned houses, lands, and companies in different parts of the world. People respected him. They feared him. They wanted to be like him.

But deep down, Mark was lonely.

He lived in a huge house on a quiet hill called Emberwood. No wife. No children. No one to talk to.

Except for one man.

His gateman.

Note _ this story belongs to jennylight any other page aside from hers stole it.
His name was John.

John had worked at the gate for ten years. He never missed a day. He wore the same uniform, the same cap, and always stood at his post like a soldier. He didn’t talk much. But every morning, when Mark came outside, John would say:

“Good morning, sir. The world is still spinning.”

And Mark would reply:

“Thanks, John. Don’t let it stop without me.”

They said this to each other every single day for ten years.

Mark never really asked questions about John. He just liked that John was always there—always quiet, always loyal. But something about him… didn’t seem normal.

John didn’t age.

He never fell sick.

He never asked for more money.

He was just… there.

One rainy evening, after Mark lost a major deal and found out that one of his trusted workers had betrayed him, he couldn’t sleep. His heart was heavy, and his head was full of thoughts.

So instead of staying in bed, he walked down to the gate and sat beside John on the small wooden bench.

John’s little radio was playing a slow, sad tune.

After some silence, Mark spoke.

“Do you think loyalty still exists, John?”

John didn’t turn to look at him.

“Real loyalty doesn’t leave, even when people do.”

Mark nodded slowly. But the words touched him in a strange way.

They felt… deeper than they sounded.

A few weeks later, a group of girls passed by the mansion during a school walk. They stopped to take photos near the tall black gate.

One of the girls, Grace, a quiet ten-year-old, suddenly pulled the hand of the woman walking beside her—Mrs. Helen, her mother’s friend.

“Aunty Helen,” Grace said in a whisper, “why is that man staring at us like that?”

“Which man?” Helen asked.

“The man at the gate… He’s not blinking.”

Helen looked up.

There was no one there.

Her heart skipped.

She grabbed Grace’s hand quickly and walked away without saying a word.

That same evening, Mark was cleaning out his old office drawer when he found a photo of the house. It looked like it was taken a long time ago. The building was newer. The trees were smaller.

And at the gate stood a man.

Wearing a cap. In uniform.

It was John.

Mark turned the photo around.

There was a date written behind it.

August 1982.

Mark had moved into the house in 2012.

How could John be in a photo taken thirty years before he moved in?

That night, Mark couldn’t sleep.

The same soft music was playing from John’s radio at the gate.

The light in the gatehouse was still on.

Mark wore his coat and slowly walked down the path toward the gate.

John was there.

Still.

Silent.

Watching.

Mark stopped and asked, his voice shaking:

“Who are you?”

John slowly turned to him. His eyes looked darker, older… like they had seen many lifetimes.

Then he said softly:

“You’re finally ready to know, sir.”

Before Mark could ask another question—

John disappeared.

No sound.

No warning.

Gone.

Only the quiet sound of the radio remained…
And the heavy gate slowly creaked open behind Mark—
as if something, or someone, had been waiting all along.

EPISODE 2

Mark stood there, frozen.

The night air grew colder.

The gate had opened by itself.
And John—his loyal gateman of ten years—had vanished without a sound.

Mark looked around, his heart pounding in his chest.

No sign of footsteps.

No sound of movement.

Just silence… and the slow hum of the old radio still playing on the bench.

He stepped closer to the gatehouse. His hands trembled as he pushed open the wooden door.

Inside, everything was neat.

Too neat.

No clothes.
No food.
No toothbrush.
No phone.

Only the uniform… perfectly folded on the chair.

And an old pocket-sized Bible placed gently on the table.

It smelled like dust and memories.

—

Mark took the Bible back to his house, sat on his bed, and opened it.

Inside the front cover, something was written in faded ink.

“To my son John – Serve with your heart, not just your hands. – Mum”

Mark paused.

His mind raced.

“To my son John…”

He turned the next page and froze.

There was a yellow paper, tucked between the pages.

A death certificate.

Name: John B. Daniels
Age: 28
Date of Death: August 23, 1983
Cause: Accidental drowning
Location: Emberwood Estate

Mark’s hand went cold.

He read the name again.

And again.

The same John?

But how?

Was it someone else with the same name?

Or… had he been living with a dead man for ten years?

—

The next morning, Mark drove straight to Emberwood records office.

He was a man known for calm and control. But that day, his hands shook as he handed over the paper.

“I need information on this man. John Daniels.”

The woman at the desk looked at the certificate and frowned.

“Sir… where did you get this?”

Mark hesitated.

“From my gateman’s room. But… he’s not there anymore.”

The woman looked at him carefully, then stood and disappeared into the back room.

Ten minutes later, she returned with a dusty brown file.

“He used to work here,” she said softly. “As a guard… just like you said. But he drowned while trying to save a child that fell into the estate’s lake. They say he died a hero.”

Mark stared at the file.

A child?

—

Back at the house, he stood at the window, staring at the old gate.

Then something caught his eye.

A shadow.

John.

He was back.

Standing silently, like nothing had happened.

Mark ran out, his voice loud:

“Where did you go?”

John turned slowly, face calm as ever.

“Nowhere, sir. I’ve always been here.”

“I found the Bible,” Mark said. “The death certificate. I saw your name. John… what are you?”

But John didn’t answer.

He simply said:

“Some truths are heavy, sir. Not everything should be rushed.”

Mark took a step forward, but something in John’s eyes stopped him.

This man—no, this presence—was guarding more than just the gate.

He was guarding a story. One that had not yet been told.

—

That evening, Mark received a visitor.

Helen.

The same woman who walked past the mansion with little Grace weeks earlier.

She looked troubled.

“Mr. Mark,” she said nervously, “I need to speak with you. It’s about… your gateman.”

Mark’s heart skipped.

“You know him?”

Helen hesitated, her voice now shaky.

“No. But I’ve seen his face before. A long time ago. When I was just a girl… I think I saw him the day my best friend’s daughter drowned.”

Mark’s face changed.

“Where?”

Helen looked down.

“In the Emberwood lake. The same year the gateman in your photo died. And the woman… the mother of that girl… was my best friend.”

Mark stared at her.

“What was her name?”

Helen’s lips trembled.

“Sarah Daniels. John’s mother.”