The first several pages are blank, nothing but faded paper stares back at me.Okay?I flip through a few more pages, my brows pulling together.Every page is empty.
Just as I’m about to give up and shove it back on the shelf, something shifts.This page has words scrawled in delicate slants of ink that stand out against the aged paper. It looks like my grandmother’s handwriting.
My pulse stumbles.
Her stories. Witches and warriors, Fae and shadows, magic hidden in the world’s forgotten corners. I always wondered if she got them from old books or if she made them up. Sometimes, she made it sound like they weren’t made up stories at all.
I turn another page and there's more handwritten notes. My hands won't stop shaking.
Before I can make sense of it, my phone rings. The sharp noise shatters the moment, yanking me back. I exhale, setting the book down with an almost reluctant hesitation before reaching for my phone.
I expect it to be Chance. But when I glance at the screen, my stomach flips.
Rachel.
A wave of disappointment crashes over me that it’s not Chance, harder than I care to admit. Ishouldn’tbe surprised. Ishouldn’teven be upset. And yet, I am.
Shoving the feeling aside, I swipe to answer.
“Hey,” I say, forcing some semblance of normalcy into my tone. But she doesn’t buy it.
We chat for a few minutes keeping the conversation light but careful. Catching up on the small things that somehow feel much bigger now. She listens, offering comfort without pushing too hard, and doesn’t hang up until she’s convinced I’m actuallyokay.
Before we say goodbye, she makes me promise to text her regular updates so she doesn’t have to call every hour to make sure I’m not crying on the couch again.
Three more days until she’s back.
After the call ends, I put my focus back on tidying up, hoping the mundane act of putting things in order might help settle the storm inside me. Despite the hours spent sorting through memories, I still haven’t found anything that hints at what the key might open.
And Chance still hasn’t called me back.
Exhaustion sinks deep in my bones, but oddly enough, the chaos does feel a little lighter. It's not gone, buta little less suffocating.
The steady rhythm of one of my favorite songs fills the kitchen, pulling me into its beat as I move through the motions of cracking eggs, buttering toast, and flipping bacon. It’s almost enough to push back the weight of yesterday.
Almost.
A knock at the door cuts through the music and I freeze, spatula hovering over the pan. I reach over to turn the music down, grabbing a towel. I don't know why I'm so jumpy, it's probably just Amazon. I dry my hands and make my way to the door and when I open it, my breath catches.
A package sits on the doorstep with my name scrawled across the top. Whoever left it is already gone.
A nervous kind of anticipation that I don’t quite understand floods my system and my fingers itch to open it. I scoop it up and nudge the door closed with my foot.
Setting the package on the counter, I grab a knife. My pulse quickens as I slide the blade through the tape. The cardboard flaps spring open, and I can see a really old wooden box.
The wood is smooth and dark, but it’s the carvings that hold my attention. Intricate patterns swirl and weave across the surface, and the designs almost seem to dance under the light. The craftsmanship on this thing is impeccable.
I run my fingers lightly over the surface, tracing the pattern, half-expecting to feel something click into place.
“What are you?” I mutter under my breath.
The box opens and I go still, staring at what’s inside. My attention is immediately drawn to two stones. A white crystal and a black stone. Both are raw and unpolished. The crystal shines with a soft, ethereal light, and it almost feels like it's humming with energy. The stone is the opposite, absorbing the light around it. This one is dark and mysterious.
I reach out hesitantly, and my fingertips brush the crystal and the moment they do, a gentle warmth spreads through me, like sunlight melting into my skin. It's barely there, but it feels comforting.Or maybe it's all in my head.
Then, I pick up the stone.
A sharp jolt shoots through my palm. It's instant. It’s not warm or gentle like the other one. It feels heavy and…demanding. A chill runs down my spine and I yank my hand back.
