A few days have passed since the hospital visit. The city carried on as if nothing had happened—buses rumbled past, children played in the park, and the faint hum of life filled every corner of the neighborhood. But for Sam Luvrick, time had slowed into something thick and silent. The kind of silence that stretched, heavy and still, until it swallowed whole days.
His house reflected him perfectly: curtains half-drawn, dishes piling in the sink, papers scattered across the table. The once-bright rooms now looked dim, the light filtering through a haze of dust and neglect.
On the third afternoon, Bryan appeared on the porch, his backpack slung lazily over one shoulder. He looked up at the motionless windows, sighed, and knocked on the door hard enough to shake it.
"Sam! You in there?"
No answer.
Bryan frowned and knocked again. "Sam, come on, man. Don't make me break in."
From inside came a dull series of sounds—footsteps thudding across the floor, quick and uneven. Thud. Thud. Thud. The lock clicked, and the door creaked open.
Sam stood there.
His hair was uncombed, his shirt wrinkled, his eyes red-rimmed and tired. He looked at Bryan with a faint, almost mechanical smile. "Hey. Come in."
Bryan stepped inside, immediately hit by the smell of burnt food and something sour. He wrinkled his nose. "Why is it so dark in here? And, dude, what is that smell?"
Sam scratched the back of his neck, his lips curling into a tired smirk. "I haven't bathed in a while, and I, uh, tried to cook. It went… let's just say AWOL."
Bryan blinked. "Awol?"
"Yeah." Sam leaned against the wall, staring into the messy living room. "I've been busy. Trying to tie back clues about my dad. Old journals, receipts, photos—anything that might help me find him."
Bryan slowly scanned the chaos: crumpled papers, burnt pans, open books stacked on chairs. He let out a long groan. "Dude, this place looks like a battlefield."
He dropped his backpack, rolling up his sleeves. "Alright. Here's the plan—you take a bath, I'll handle this warzone."
Sam waved a dismissive hand. "Don't worry about it."
Bryan froze mid-motion. "What do you mean, don't worry about it? This place smells like an entire rat colony died here!"
Sam tilted his head. "And how do you know what that smells like?"
Bryan glared. "I don't! But you're giving me a good idea right now."
Sam actually laughed—a short, breathy laugh that made Bryan relax a little. "Fair," Sam said, grinning.
Bryan pointed toward the kitchen. "And what exactly do you mean by 'the food went awol'?"
Sam blinked, suddenly guilty. "Uh…"
Bryan groaned. "You didn't—don't tell me you tried cooking something alive again."
Sam stayed silent, gaze drifting away.
"Oh my god." Bryan dragged a hand down his face. "You did. You tried to cook live food again. You know, I swear one day you're going to end up on the news for inventing sentient lasagna."
That finally pulled a genuine laugh out of Sam, weak but real. "You're impossible."
"No, you're disgusting," Bryan shot back, grinning. "Now go freshen up before you start merging with the furniture."
Sam sighed but obeyed. "Fine, fine."
As Sam trudged up the stairs, Bryan grabbed a broom, a mop, and a bucket from the corner closet. The moment Sam disappeared into the bathroom, he took a deep breath and muttered, "Alright, Operation De-Rat begins."
He started sweeping, tossing trash into a bag, scrubbing dishes, and cracking the windows open to let the air flow through. The smell of smoke and dust slowly gave way to faint freshness. As he cleaned, he noticed the details Sam had left untouched—pictures of his mother framed on the wall, a small pile of letters on the counter, a folded hospital form with the doctor's signature.
Bryan paused for a second, his expression softening. "Hang in there, man," he whispered to no one. "We'll figure it out."
The sound of running water upstairs continued, steady and calming. For the first time in days, the house began to breathe again.
After about twenty minutes, the water shut off.
Sam's voice echoed from the hallway, a little more alive. "I'm done!"
Bryan looked up, leaning on the broom. "Thank god. I thought you'd let me die here before you finished washing."
Sam descended the stairs wearing clean clothes, hair damp, and face clearer. "And why would I do that? I don't want you going all samurai on me."
Bryan chuckled. "I learned swordsmanship for self-defense, not for cleaning your junk."
Sam smirked. "Yeah, and you wanted me to use magic on Audrey. Real self-defense right there."
Bryan laughed. "C'mon, let that go already!"
"Sure, sure."
Together, they finished tidying up—mopping the floor, rearranging furniture, gathering scattered papers into neat piles. Dust fled from every corner, replaced by the faint citrus scent of old cleaning spray.
When they finally stepped back, the transformation was almost shocking. The house looked lived in again, not abandoned.
Bryan clapped his hands. "There. Now both you and this house smell normal."
Sam chuckled. "You too. You look like you fought a war."
Bryan held a hand to his chest dramatically. "No more rats."
They both laughed, the sound echoing softly through the now-clean room. But as quickly as it came, the laughter faded, leaving behind a heavy quiet.
Sam stared at the floor, then spoke quietly. "I'm going to see my mom."
Bryan nodded without hesitation. "I'll tag along."
Sam grabbed his jacket from the back of a chair. "Oh—and bring the box."
Bryan blinked. "The box?"
"In the kitchen," Sam said, already heading toward the door.
Bryan crossed the room and spotted it on the table—the same cardboard box from years ago, the one with Luvrick written across its top. It looked ordinary, but the air around it always felt colder, heavier, as if it remembered things no human could.
He picked it up carefully and handed it to Sam by the doorway. "Here."
"Thanks," Sam said, taking it.
Bryan raised an eyebrow as Sam unzipped a small satchel slung at his side. "Uh, Sam, I hate to break it to you, but that bag is like, less than half the size of the box. How do you intend to put the box in it?"
Sam grinned for the first time that day. "Is that even a question?"
The box shimmered faintly, folding in on itself as if reality bent around it. It slid neatly into the bag, leaving no trace behind.
Bryan gawked. "How—what—how does that even work?"
Sam zipped the bag closed, smirking. "It's magic."
Bryan groaned. "Right. Of course. Logical answer."
They stepped out into the cool evening air, the door closing behind them with a soft click. The streets were quiet, the sky dimming to deep amber.
For the first time in days, Sam felt something other than numbness. The weight of the box against his side felt almost like a heartbeat—a reminder of everything he'd lost and everything he still had to fight for.
Bryan shoved his hands into his pockets as they started down the sidewalk. "Hey, Sam?"
"Yeah?"
"I know you're not saying it, but… we're going to figure this out. Your mom, your dad—whatever that box is hiding—we'll get to the bottom of it."
Sam didn't answer immediately. He looked up at the sky, at the faint clouds glowing like fading embers. "Yeah," he said softly. "We will."
The wind shifted, carrying with it the faintest whisper—something so soft it might've been imagination.
Find me.
Sam's steps faltered. Bryan looked at him, confused.
"You okay?"
Sam nodded slowly, though his pulse was racing. "Yeah. Just thought I heard something."
They kept walking, unaware that somewhere deep inside the box in Sam's bag, a faint golden light pulsed once—then vanished.
To be continued...