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The box sat between them on the kitchen table, as silent and menacing as a coiled snake.
Rain tapped against the windows in uneven rhythms, the storm outside crawling across the night like something alive. The kitchen light above them buzzed faintly, throwing shadows against peeling wallpaper.
Elara sat with her arms folded tight, as though bracing herself. She had changed into jeans and a gray sweatshirt, but her damp hair still clung to her neck, sending a chill down her spine every time a drop rolled free. Her gaze never left the box. Polished wood, dark and glossy, trimmed in brass. The faint scratches along its surface made it look old, handled too many times by hands now gone.
Her father's hands.
Every time she reached forward and brushed her fingers across the lid, her stomach tightened. It didn't just look like a secret—it felt like one.
Across from her, Cass was incapable of stillness. He prowled the narrow kitchen, back and forth like a caged animal. His jacket was gone, his shirt clinging slightly from the rain, his tie pulled loose and dangling from his collar like he'd strangled it halfway. Every few steps he'd shoot the box a sharp glance, then resume pacing.
"You're just going to stare at it all night?" His voice finally cut through the heavy silence, harsher than he probably meant.
Elara flinched slightly. "I'm thinking."
Cass gave a dry laugh and dragged a hand through his damp hair. "Yeah? Well, think faster. We don't know if it's safe. For all we know, it's… I don't know. Rigged. Poisoned. Trapped."
"Trapped?" Elara gave him a flat look.
"You've seen movies," he shot back. "Some creepy guy in a trench coat hands us a locked box at a funeral, mutters about doors that can't be closed—what if it's not a box but a bomb? Or some… cursed relic?"
Despite herself, Elara almost smiled. Cass always filled silence with sarcasm when he was nervous. But her hands still trembled faintly as she traced the brass clasp.
"It's not dangerous," she whispered. "Dad wouldn't leave us something that could hurt us."
Cass snorted. "Dad? The same Dad who took us into a flooded tunnel when we were ten because he thought it hid a Roman aqueduct? Who dragged us into caves with barely-working flashlights? The guy's middle name was dangerous."
Elara bristled. "He was careful. With us."
Cass stopped pacing long enough to meet her eyes. His own were sharp, restless, but underneath she caught the flicker of grief he tried so hard to bury. "Maybe. But you know as well as I do—he didn't exactly live in the real world. He lived in his myths."
Elara dropped her gaze back to the box. Myths, maybe. But her father had always sworn myths carried seeds of truth. He used to sit with her at night, sketching symbols across old notebooks, whispering about lost languages and forgotten empires like bedtime stories. And now he was gone, leaving her with this.
Her fingers curled against the polished wood.
"Fine," Cass muttered, pushing away from the wall. He grabbed a butter knife from the counter, the blade flashing under the kitchen light. "If you won't open it, I will."
"Wait—!"
But Cass was already at the table. He jammed the knife under the clasp and twisted hard. For a moment the brass resisted, then gave way with a sharp crack, snapping off in his hand.
The box creaked open.
Elara leaned forward, holding her breath.
Inside, nestled in worn velvet, lay a single item: a leather-bound journal. Its cover was cracked and scuffed, the spine brittle with age. She reached for it carefully, as though afraid it might crumble, and as she lifted it out a faint scent of smoke clung to the air.
Cass frowned. "Looks like it went through a fire."
Elara's throat tightened. Dad's study… the fire that killed him. She traced the edge of the journal with trembling fingers.
"Go on," Cass urged, impatient. "Open it."
She did. The first page was filled with their father's hurried script, looping across the yellowed paper. Notes, fragments, dates. Sketches of ruins and maps scattered between lines of dense writing. Some pages were little more than symbols, scrawled quickly in the margins as though copied in a rush.
Cass leaned over her shoulder, his breath hot on her ear. "That's not his usual research. Not the stuff he published."
Elara turned the pages slowly, reverently. Halfway through, her hand froze.
Several pages had been torn out, leaving jagged edges behind.
Her pulse quickened. "Why would he—"
"Maybe he didn't." Cass's voice was grim. "Maybe someone else got to it first."
The words settled like a stone in her stomach. Before she could reply, a sound split the silence.
A creak.
From upstairs.
Elara's head snapped up, heart hammering. She shot Cass a wide-eyed look.
He was already moving, grabbing the heavy flashlight from the counter. He pressed a finger to his lips, motioning her to stay quiet. Then he crept toward the stairs, his movements slow, deliberate, predatory.
Elara clutched the journal to her chest. Her skin prickled. Every instinct screamed danger.
Another creak followed, louder this time. Closer.
Someone was inside the house.
Her throat went dry. The stranger from the funeral? Someone else? Whoever it was, they hadn't come for the TV or the silverware. They'd come for this.
Cass took the stairs one at a time, flashlight raised like a club. His shoulders were taut with tension, every muscle coiled. The air felt too thin, too heavy.
Then a sudden crash shattered the silence—a window breaking.
"Stay here!" Cass barked, and charged up the remaining steps.
Elara's breath stuck in her lungs. She wanted to run, to hide, but her feet refused to move. The shadows stretched across the kitchen walls, flickering with each flick of the bulb. Her fingers dug into the journal, smudging the soot-stained cover.
Shouts echoed upstairs. A thud, then Cass's voice, sharp with fury: "Hey! Stop!"
Elara shot to her feet. "Cass!"
She bolted toward the stairs. But before she could reach them, a figure in black came hurtling down.
The intruder moved fast, with the grace of someone trained. Their face was masked, their clothes tight and dark, made for silence. Elara barely had time to gasp before they shoved her hard against the wall. Pain jolted through her shoulder, her vision flashing white.
The figure sprinted for the kitchen door.
"Wait!" Elara shouted, but her voice was thin, useless.
The intruder vaulted over a chair, slammed the back door open, and vanished into the rain-slick night.
Seconds later Cass thundered down, breath ragged, flashlight gripped like a weapon. His chest heaved as he scanned the room.
"They were in Dad's study," he panted. "Went straight for the filing cabinet. The old research."
Elara's grip on the journal tightened, knuckles white. "They were after this."
Cass's gaze flicked to the leather-bound book, then back to the broken window. His jaw hardened, the restless energy in him suddenly still, cold.
"Then Dad's accident…" He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't have to.
Elara's heart sank. She hugged the journal tighter, as if it could shield her. For the first time, she let herself think it.
It wasn't an accident.
The storm raged outside, wind howling through the broken glass. The Morgans stood frozen in the small kitchen, two siblings, one journal, and a truth too dangerous to ignore.
Somewhere out there, the man in black was reporting back. Somewhere out there, others were already closing in.
And the box had done its job. It had opened a door.
One that could never be closed.
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