The walk home feels twice as long and ten times colder.
Lorean stays close to my side, unusually quiet, her fingers occasionally brushing my sleeve like she's checking to make sure I'm still there. I try to keep my expression neutral, calm—something strong for her to anchor to—but the old man's words keep echoing through my mind.
Find the book.
Before he finds you.
You look just like her.
The ink between worlds is thinning.
None of it makes sense.
And yet… it feels like a truth my bones have been waiting for.
When we reach the house, I fumble with the key, breath shallow. Lorean watches me carefully.
"Wren," she murmurs, "you're shaking."
"No, I'm fine," I lie, pushing open the door. "We'll talk inside."
She steps in behind me, quietly closing the door. The house greets us with its usual stillness—the kind that feels too big for just two people. Dust hangs in the air, catching the faint morning light, drifting like tired ghosts.
I go straight to the kitchen and place the silver feather on the table.
Lorean stares at it. "What is that?"
"A bookmark," I whisper. "He gave it to me."
"Why? What does it mean?"
"I don't know."
But I do know where I need to look.
The attic.
Our parents' things have been untouched since the night they vanished. The thought of going up there makes my skin tighten, but the old man's voice presses me forward like a hand between my shoulder blades.
I turn to Lorean. "I need to check something upstairs."
"I'm coming with you."
"Ren—"
"I'm not staying down here alone while you go digging through… through memories by yourself."
Her face is set in that stubborn, trembling way that always breaks me. I nod once.
"Okay. Come on."
We climb the narrow stairs, each step groaning under our weight. At the top, the attic door resists like it hasn't been opened in years. When I push it open, the smell hits me first—old wood, dust, forgotten fabric, a faint trace of lavender that makes my throat tighten.
The room is dim except for a single window where sunlight filters through in pale beams. Motes of dust drift lazily through the light like drifting stars.
Our parents' belongings sit in quiet rows:
Wooden trunks.
Old crates.
Stacks of boxes labeled in my mother's looping script.
I stand frozen in the doorway.
It feels like stepping into a mausoleum.
Lorean touches my arm gently. "Where do we start?"
"I… don't know."
I take a slow breath.
"But the old man said they hid it. So somewhere they thought was safe."
My mother was sentimental.
My father was methodical.
Together they hid things in odd places.
I move toward the nearest trunk, kneeling on the floorboards. The lid creaks open to reveal old quilts, letters tied with ribbon, a small tin box full of dried lavender. My throat tightens again, but I push the feeling down.
"It wouldn't be in here," I whisper.
We check another trunk. Then a chest beneath the window. Then a box full of old coats that still smell faintly of my father's cologne.
Nothing.
Frustration begins to coil in my stomach. My palms feel hot; my heartbeat echoes in my ears.
"What if he was wrong?" Lorean mutters, her brows furrowed. "What if there isn't a book?"
"He knew her," I say sharply, surprising myself with the edge in my voice. "He knew things he shouldn't know. There's something here—I can feel it."
"Feel it?" she repeats, blinking. "What does that—"
A creak interrupts her.
But it's not from the floorboards.
It's from above.
I look up.
The attic has a small crawlspace built into the beams—a barely visible panel of wood near the slope of the roof. A place we never noticed. A place our parents never mentioned.
Lorean follows my gaze. "I didn't know that was there."
"Neither did I."
I stand slowly, dusting off my hands. The crawlspace is only accessible by climbing onto a lower beam. With a deep breath, I pull myself up, my fingers brushing the low ceiling for balance.
"Wren, be careful," Lorean whispers.
I reach the panel.
It's wedged in tightly.
But there—along the edge—is a faint groove. An intentional seam.
A hiding place.
My pulse kicks hard.
I press my fingertips into the groove and push.
The wood slides backward with a soft sigh of dust. Inside the crawlspace, tucked into the shadows…
…is a notebook.
Plain brown leather.
Worn. Soft at the edges.
A thin leather strap wrapped around it three times to keep it closed.
It looks… ordinary.
But the air around it feels wrong.
Too still.
Too thick.
As if the world is holding its breath.
I swallow hard and reach for it.
The moment my fingers brush the cover, a shiver shoots through me—like dipping my hand into ice water and fire at once. The attic lights seems to flicker.
"Wren?" Lorean whispers, voice trembling. "What's happening?"
"I—I don't know."
The notebook pulses faintly beneath my fingertips.
Not literally—not like a heartbeat—but like something inside it is stirring after a long sleep.
I pull it out of the crawlspace and drop back down to the floor. Lorean hovers close, fear widening her eyes.
"That's it," she breathes. "Isn't it?"
"It has to be."
My voice is barely a whisper.
I untie the leather strap and open the cover.
Inside, the pages are blank.
All of them.
But the paper feels strange beneath my fingertips—as if it's waiting. As if it's listening.
As if it's alive.
Lorean touches my shoulder. "What does it do?"
I look at her.
Then at the notebook.
Then back at the silver bookmark downstairs.
"I don't know," I murmur.
"But I think… it reacts to writing."
The attic seems to hold its breath with me.
"What if…"
My voice trembles.
"What if this is why they disappeared?"
Lorean's eyes widen with sudden terror. "Wren—what if using it is dangerous?"
I close the notebook gently.
"It is," I whisper.
I can feel it.
Like the aftertaste of lightning.
"But we don't have a choice."
The old man's warning swirls through my mind:
Before he finds you.
The attic seems suddenly darker.
The dust colder.
The air heavier.
Somewhere—far beyond the walls of this house—
someone feels the notebook awaken.
And he is already turning his gaze toward us.