The rain hadn't stopped for hours. It came down in thin, whispering sheets, soft enough to sound gentle, heavy enough to feel endless. The world outside Ellen Luvrick's home blurred into gray, a smudged watercolor of light and memory. Through the curtain's crack, she saw the shape of a police cruiser parked by the curb, its headlights flickering against the puddles on the road.
Her breath caught when the knock came.
She stood motionless for a moment, the kettle's faint whistle behind her dissolving into the rhythm of the storm. When she finally opened the door, the light from the hallway spilled onto the porch and onto a man in uniform—his cap slightly tilted, rain dripping from its rim. His expression already told her what his words were about to.
"Sorry, Ellen," he said quietly. "We couldn't find your husband."
The world seemed to stop there. The sound of the rain dimmed, her fingers tightening on the wooden doorframe.
"Are you sure?" she whispered, voice trembling.
The policeman—tall, tired eyes beneath the brim—shifted uncomfortably. "We did find this…"
He turned, boots squelching against wet gravel, and opened the trunk of his car. When he came back, he carried a plain cardboard box, soaked around the corners. The word LUVRICK was scrawled across it in fading black ink. Empty.
"It was found under the abandoned bridge," he explained, voice low. "By the waterside."
The moment her eyes met the box, something inside her broke. Her hand reached out instinctively, trembling, then seized the box from his grip as if it were something alive—something she had to protect.
"Says who?" she snapped suddenly, breath shaking.
He blinked, startled, but said nothing more.
"Sorry for your loss," he murmured after a pause, tugging at the brim of his cap. "The name's Buck… Bucky Sanders. If you ever need help, here's my card."
He handed her a small laminated rectangle—his name, number, badge ID, a few emergency contacts.
"Anytime," he said softly. "Call me, and I'll come around as fast as I can."
"Thank you," Ellen replied automatically.
She closed the door, sealing out the wind. The silence that followed was suffocating.
For a long while, she stood in the entryway, staring at the box in her hands. It felt heavier than it looked, as if grief itself had weight. The cardboard was damp, cool against her palms. Her reflection stared faintly back from the dark window beside the door—eyes red, lips trembling.
Then she heard the faintest creak.
Turning, she caught sight of a small figure on the staircase—her son, Sam, half-hidden by the railing, watching her. His wide eyes glimmered under the amber hallway light. When she saw the curiosity—and fear—on his young face, she forced herself to breathe.
A smile came, crooked and strained. She set the box down, wiped her face, and said softly, "Come here, honey."
Sam stepped down hesitantly, bare feet whispering against the wooden steps. "Mom… who was that?" he asked. "What was he saying about Dad?"
Ellen crouched down, trying to make her voice sound calm. Her hand found its way to his hair, stroking it gently. "He just came to tell us your dad's gone on a trip. A very important business trip. He might not be back for a while."
Sam frowned. "Can we go see him?"
She shook her head. "I'm sorry, sweetheart, but no. We can't go see him right now."
Sam studied her face. "You're lying."
Her breath caught. "What?"
"You always smile like that when you lie," he said matter-of-factly. "Crooked. And your hands shake."
Her fingers stilled. She exhaled and smiled for real this time—sadly. "Too smart for your own good."
Standing, she took his hand and led him into the kitchen. The light above the counter flickered once, humming softly. She set the box on the table, pulling out a chair for him. He climbed onto it, small legs swinging.
"Your dad's missing, Sam," she said quietly. "He went missing."
Sam blinked. "Missing?"
"Yes," she replied, voice soft as silk, fraying at the edges. "But he left us something to help find him."
Sam tilted his head. "He did?"
Ellen placed her hand above the box. The air thickened. For a moment, the world felt charged—like the heartbeat before lightning strikes.
She whispered something under her breath, a word older than language.
A shimmer rippled through the air. The box glowed faintly, its surface trembling as though it were breathing. Then, one by one, objects appeared inside—a pocket watch with the name Sam scratched on it's back, a ring, a faded photograph of Ellen and her husband on a pier, and a small brass key engraved with unfamiliar runes.
Sam gasped, eyes wide with wonder. "Whoa! What did you do?"
Ellen's lips curved into a wistful smile.
"Magic," she said.
"Magic?"
"Yes," she nodded. "Do you want to learn your dad's favorite thing in the whole world?"
The boy's eyes gleamed. "Yes!"
Ellen leaned in, hugging him tight, her fingers running through his hair as if memorizing him. "You will, someday. Don't worry."
Outside, thunder rumbled faintly across the horizon. The candle by the window flickered, and the shadows in the kitchen deepened.
She whispered against his ear: "We'll get through this."
The rain didn't stop that night. It carried through the next day, and the next week, washing away footprints, phone calls, hope. But the box remained on the table—open, quiet, heavy with secrets.
Inside it, the objects gleamed faintly whenever lightning flashed through the curtains.
Almost as if listening.
Ten Years Later
Crosslight High School
The bell shrieked through the corridors, a metallic scream that sent students pouring out of classrooms like a wave.
Lockers slammed. Laughter bounced off the walls.
Somewhere amid the chaos, a tall boy with sharp eyes and a satchel full of worn notebooks turned his head as someone called out.
"Sam! Sam!! Sam!!!"
The boy looked up. The same eyes—His father's eyes—now older, tired, and distant. A faint scar traced the corner of his left hand, where, once, an empty box had burned with impossible light.
He blinked, shaking off the memory. "Coming!"
As he stepped into the sunlit hall, the noise of Crosslight High faded for just a second—and in that silence, a whisper echoed through his mind.
A voice he hadn't heard since he was a child.
"Find me."
And just like that, the story of Majeik began again.