His gaze shifted to a corner of the room, where a small chest lay overturned. He walked over, crouching down to inspect it. The lock was broken, the contents scattered. He picked up a few items—a photograph of his grandfather, an old pocket watch, a stack of faded letters.
Carefully, he placed them back inside the chest. "You deserved better than this," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion.
His eyes landed on a pile of weights near the back of the room, partially hidden under a broken shelf. He smiled faintly. At least they didn't find anything.
The living room was eerily still, the quiet broken only by the occasional groan of the old house settling. The once-warm space, filled with fond memories of his grandfather sitting in his favorite armchair, now seemed alien and cold. Arin's footsteps were slow and deliberate, the soles of his shoes scuffing against the dusty wooden floor. The air felt thick, as if the walls themselves were closing in on him.
As he moved toward the back of the house, he paused for a moment, his eyes scanning the faint outlines of furniture cloaked in shadows. His heart thudded against his ribcage, the sound magnified by the silence around him. What if they tricked me? The thought came unbidden, his mind conjuring images of Celestia and her children watching him, waiting for him to make a move.
What if they left that hole on purpose? A trap to lure me out?
He shook his head, trying to dispel the paranoia creeping into his thoughts. No. They don't know. They can't know.
The wind outside howled softly, slipping through the cracks in the old windows with a low whhhoooooosshhh, and for a moment, it sounded like a whisper.
Arin reached the hallway leading to the hidden part of the house, his fingers brushing against the cold walls as if they would ground him. The faint outline of the groove his grandfather had shown him years ago came into view. His heart raced.
"This is it," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.
His hand pressed firmly against the wall, his palm sweating as he applied pressure. A low, mechanical click echoed through the hallway, making him flinch. The sound was followed by a faint hum, as though the house was waking from its slumber.
Then, with a groan like an ancient beast stirring, the wall shifted. The sound of gears grinding filled the air, sharp and metallic, accompanied by a spray of dust that made him cough and wave his hand in front of his face.
As the secret staircase began to descend, a rush of air whistled past him.
Whhhhooooosshhhhh.
The wind carried a coldness that prickled his skin, sending shivers down his spine.
The staircase revealed itself, narrow and spiraling upward into darkness. Each step creaked and groaned under its own weight, as if protesting its movement.
Arin hesitated, staring up at the staircase. His stomach churned. What if they're waiting for me up there? The thought gnawed at him, and he glanced back over his shoulder. The hallway was still, the house as silent as a graveyard.
Don't be ridiculous, he told himself, his grandfather's voice echoing in his mind. "No one knows about this place but you and me, Arin."
Taking a deep breath, he put one foot on the first step. The wood let out a loud creaaaak, and he froze. The sound seemed to echo endlessly, bouncing off the walls and filling the air.
"Get it together," he muttered, shaking his head.
He began climbing, his hands brushing against the cool, rough walls on either side for balance. The faint hum of the mechanism faded, replaced by the rhythmic thud of his heartbeat and the soft creak of the steps beneath him.
When he reached the top, the attic greeted him with a musty, suffocating scent. The air was dense, carrying the smell of old wood, decaying paper, and time itself. The dim light filtering through the cracks in the roof barely illuminated the space. Shadows stretched long and thin, curling around forgotten trunks and cobweb-covered furniture.
Arin hesitated, taking it all in. His grandfather's voice played in his head, giving him the directions once more.
"It's under the old sewing table, Arin. Pull the drawer all the way out. They'll never think to look there."
He moved cautiously, his shoes scraping against the wooden floor and sending small puffs of dust into the air. His breaths were shallow, his heartbeat loud in his ears. When he spotted the sewing table in the corner, his chest tightened.
There it was. Just as his grandfather had described. Its edges were chipped, and one leg was held together with tape that had long lost its stickiness.
Arin's chest tightened. The memory of his grandfather's voice filled the space around him, as though the old man were right there beside him. "It's under the sewing table, Arin. No one will ever think to look there."
The table's legs wobbled slightly when he reached it, the wood riddled with cracks and wear. A thin layer of dust coated every surface, clinging to his fingers when he brushed it away. He grabbed the edge of the drawer and pulled, the old wood protesting with a loud scrape.
"Come on," he muttered under his breath, his muscles straining as he yanked the drawer completely out. It clattered to the floor with a thud, sending a cloud of dust swirling into the air.
And there it was—a small hole in the wall behind where the drawer had been.
Arin's hands trembled slightly as he reached inside. His fingers brushed against something smooth and cold. Slowly, he pulled it out, revealing a small metal box. The surface was tarnished, and the hinges were rusted, but the weight of it in his hands felt significant, like it held more than just papers.
The moment Arin pulled the box from its hiding spot, a cascade of dust exploded into the air, enveloping him in a gritty cloud. He recoiled, his nose twitching uncontrollably before letting out a loud, violent sneeze.
"Achoo!" he barked, the force of it bending him forward. Before he could recover, another followed. "Achoo! Achoo!" His sneezes echoed in the attic, bouncing off the walls like cannon fire.
He sniffled, blinking through watery eyes, and tried to wave the dust away with his hand. Instead, he only stirred it up more, causing a fresh wave to invade his nose.
"Cough, cough," he wheezed, bending over and clutching his knees as he tried to regain his breath. His chest heaved as another fit of coughing overtook him. "Cough, cough, cough!"
When the worst of it passed, he wiped his face with the sleeve of his shirt, leaving a faint streak of dirt across his cheek. His voice was hoarse as he muttered, "This place could use some serious cleaning."
Setting the box on the sewing table, he took a moment to inspect it. His hands left faint prints on the dust-caked surface as he turned it over, examining every angle. The metal edges were worn, tarnished with rust, but the lock on the front remained sturdy. Its once-shiny gold gleam was dulled with time, but it was unyielding, a testament to his grandfather's caution.
His stomach churned as his gaze settled on the combination lock. It felt like the box was staring back at him, daring him to try.
"Of course, it couldn't just be easy," he muttered under his breath, his voice heavy with sarcasm. Running a hand through his hair, he let out a frustrated sigh. "Figures."
He exhaled sharply, his breath disturbing the dust motes floating around him. "Think, Arin. Think."
His eyes roamed the attic, as if searching for a clue in the dim, cluttered space. The faint ticking of a long-forgotten clock somewhere in the house filled the silence.
And then it hit him. His grandfather's birthday.
He hesitated, his fingers hovering over the lock. Slowly, he began turning the numbers. The faint click, click, click of the dial echoed in the attic.
Arin paused after entering the final digit, his heart pounding like a drum in his chest. With a deep breath, he pressed down on the latch, anticipation tightening every muscle in his body.
Click!
He froze. Nothing happened. The lock didn't budge.
"What?" His voice cracked, confusion laced with disbelief. He pressed down harder, jiggling the latch as if sheer force could break it open. The lock stayed stubbornly in place.
"No, no, no," he muttered, running a hand through his hair as a bead of sweat slid down his temple. His mind raced. "Maybe I got it wrong."
He reset the lock, the numbers snapping back to zero with an almost taunting click. His fingers worked quickly, turning the dial again. This time, he tried his grandfather's wedding anniversary, the day he always spoke about with a wistful smile.
Click, click, click.
The final digit fell into place, and he pulled the latch again.
Nothing.
Arin groaned, the frustration bubbling in his chest. "Come on!" he growled, slamming his palm against the metal box. The hollow thunk echoed in the quiet attic, followed by the faint rustle of papers inside.
He sat back, the floorboards creaking beneath him, and stared at the lock. What else could it be? His grandfather wasn't the type to use something random—it had to mean something. But what?
His mind sifted through memories, clawing for any detail he might have overlooked. The date his grandfather retired? His favorite number? The day Arin was born?
"Maybe it's me," he said aloud, his voice tight with desperation. He tried his own birthday, meticulously turning the dial with trembling hands.
Click, click, click.
He yanked at the latch, and again, the lock didn't budge.
"Why won't you open?!" he shouted, his voice cracking with the weight of his frustration. His hands clenched into fists, and he slammed them down on the floor, the impact sending a dull ache up his arms. The room seemed to close in around him, the shadows growing longer, darker, heavier.
He leaned his head back against the wall, breathing heavily. The faint ticking of the old clock in the distance only seemed to mock him further.
The lock lay in his lap, its smooth, unyielding surface glinting faintly in the dim attic light. It was as though it was laughing at him, daring him to try again, knowing it would win.
As the minutes stretched into what felt like hours, his frustration grew. Each failed attempt made the knot in his chest tighten. He slammed the box lightly with his palm, a puff of dust rising into the air. "Cough, cough," he groaned, waving his hand to clear the air.
"Why won't you open?" he growled, his voice bouncing off the attic walls. His thoughts churned, a whirlwind of self-doubt and irritation.
The lock remained silent, its golden dial glinting faintly in the dim light. It seemed to mock him, its unyielding stillness a challenge he couldn't overcome.
Arin leaned his elbows on the table, burying his face in his hands. The weight of his grandfather's trust pressed heavily on his shoulders, and for the first time since entering the attic, he felt a deep pang of doubt.
"What if I can't do this?" he whispered to himself, his voice cracking.
Arin's chest heaved as he closed his eyes, trying to calm the storm brewing inside him. What did he say, Grandpa? What was it that I missed?
But no answer came, just the hollow silence of the attic.
Finally, with a growl of exasperation, he threw the lock and box onto the sewing table. The loud clang echoed through the attic, and the dust swirling in the air seemed to settle as if stunned by his outburst.
"I don't have time for this," he muttered bitterly, rubbing his temples. His frustration sat heavy in his chest, mingling with the nagging sense of defeat. He couldn't help but feel like the box was testing him, guarding its secrets with more stubbornness than he thought possible.
He stood up abruptly, the floor protesting with a loud creak, and glared at the box as though his anger alone could force it open. "Fine. You win for now," he muttered, his voice low and tight.