The call came just after noon.
Aren[1] answered without thinking, pen still in his hand, halfway through a sentence he would never finish.
"This is City General Hospital," the voice said calmly. "Your mother—Miss June—was brought in following an incident at the National Museum."
Aren didn't remember standing up. He only remembered the floor rushing past as he grabbed his bag and ran.
The hospital corridor felt too bright.
Too clean. The smell of disinfectant pressed into his lungs as he paced back and forth, counting his steps without realizing it. Every second stretched thin, fragile, as if something might snap if he stopped moving.
When the doctor finally approached, Aren forgot to breathe.
"She's stable," the doctor said. "No physical injuries. Severe shock."
Relief hit him all at once. His knees weakened, and he leaned against the wall before he realized he needed to.
"You can see her," the doctor added.
June looked smaller in the hospital bed.
Her hair was loose, slightly disheveled, her hands resting stiffly over the blanket. She turned her head when Aren entered, and her eyes softened the moment she saw him.
"Aren," she said quietly.
He forced a smile and moved closer. "You scared me, Mom."
She let out a faint laugh. "I suppose I did."
Trying to keep things light, Aren added, "Guess those thieves picked the wrong museum. You handled it, didn't you?"
For a moment, she smiled.
Then her gaze drifted away, unfocused.
"They asked about the vault," she said suddenly.
Aren stiffened.
"I told them the truth," June continued. "That the main vault needs a special key. That only the head curator carries it." Her fingers curled into the blanket. "They didn't like that answer."
She paused, pressing her fingers to her temple.
"One of them stepped forward," she said slowly. "A man. He wore gloves… dark bronze, almost metallic." Her voice dropped. "He touched the lock."
Aren leaned in. "And?"
Her breathing grew uneven.
"His hand changed," she whispered. "Not a trick. It shifted—reshaped itself into the exact form of the key."
A chill crept up Aren's spine.
"Then there was a girl," June said. "She released something into the air. Pink smoke. It spread everywhere." She squeezed her eyes shut. "People started collapsing. My vision went foggy."
She winced, clutching her head.
"My head hurts when I try to remember too much," she murmured. "Everything breaks apart."
Aren gently took her hand. "You don't have to force it."
She nodded, breathing slowly.
"I remember running," she said after a moment. "Trying to reach the alarm. I remember metal hitting the floor. Something rolling."
Her voice faltered.
"And then… I don't remember clearly." She hesitated. "Just a sound."
"What kind of sound?" Aren asked.
"…A howl," she said.
The word barely left her lips.
"Like a wolf," she continued, eyes distant. "But wrong. It echoed inside my head."
Silence settled between them.
After a while, June frowned and looked down at herself.
"My watch," she said. "The pocket watch your grandparents gave me. I had it with me today." Her voice softened. "But when I woke up… it was gone."
Aren swallowed. "I'll find it."
She looked at him sharply. "The museum will be closed. Government officers were there. They sealed everything."
"I know," he said quietly. "But I'll be careful."
She studied his face for a long moment, then nodded, exhaustion finally overtaking her.
Night had fallen by the time Aren walked her home.
June went to bed early, drained by the day. Aren stayed awake, sitting in the dark, replaying her words over and over.
Bronze hand.Pink smoke.A howl that didn't belong.
And the watch—small, old, meaningless to anyone else.
By midnight, Aren had made up his mind.
The museum stood silent beneath the moon.
Chains sealed the gates. Shadows clung to the stone walls as wind whispered through torn banners. Somewhere nearby, a low sound carried through the night—distant, hollow, almost like howling.
A thin black smoke crept along the ground near the entrance, curling as if it were alive.
Aren stopped at the gate, heart pounding.
Just get the watch, he told himself. And leave.
From deep within the museum, something shifted.
And the night seemed to listen.
[1] Aren is the Mc of our world