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.
The attic was silent, save for the faint rustle of the wind sneaking through the cracks of the old house. The box sat in front of Arin, stubborn and unyielding, its lock gleaming faintly under the dim attic light. He had tried every combination he could think of, yet the lock refused to budge.
Arin groaned, sitting back on his heels. His fingers were dust-streaked, and his patience had all but vanished. "Come on, Grandpa," he muttered. "You couldn't have made this that hard, could you?"
He leaned forward, squinting at the box again. His hand brushed over its surface, disturbing another layer of dust that rose into the air like a puff of smoke. He coughed. "Cough, cough." Then, the light caught something—an engraving on the box he hadn't noticed before.
Curious, he swiped his sleeve over it, wiping away the grime. The faint letters carved into the surface began to emerge, each one simple yet profound. He read them aloud:
"Follow your heart."
He stared at the words, his eyebrows furrowing. "Follow my heart?" he repeated, tilting his head in confusion. "What's there to follow? My heart doesn't exactly speak in codes, Grandpa."
He sighed, dropping to the attic floor. The wood was cold beneath him, its chill seeping through his jeans. He rested his elbows on his knees, staring at the box as if it would suddenly explain itself.
"What does that even mean?" he muttered, running a hand through his hair. He looked around the attic, hoping for some divine inspiration. Dust-coated relics of his grandfather's life surrounded him—old books, faded photographs, tools that hadn't been touched in years.
He leaned his head back against the wall, his thoughts swirling. If you were here, Grandpa, what would you have done? What would you have thought of?
The wind outside howled, a sudden and sharp whoooshhh that rattled the attic window. Arin shivered, startled by the sound. For a moment, it felt like the wind was alive, as if it were whispering something he couldn't quite catch.
His eyes snapped open, and a thought struck him like lightning. "That's it," he breathed. "Why have I never thought of it before?"
He scrambled to his knees, pulling the box closer. His fingers trembled as he reached for the lock. The date—the day I lost my parents.
It was a date etched into his memory forever, a day of heartbreak and loss. But it wasn't just significant to him—it had been deeply meaningful to his grandfather as well. His mother, his grandfather's youngest daughter, had been his pride and joy.
Carefully, he spun the numbers into place. The dial clicked with each turn, the sound louder than ever in the still attic. He held his breath as he turned the final number.
Click.
The lock gave way with a soft snap, and Arin's eyes widened. For a moment, he just stared at the box, almost afraid to open it. Then, with a deep breath, he lifted the lid.
Inside, the box was immaculate—an unexpected contrast to its weathered exterior. The interior gleamed, the wood smooth and polished, as if untouched by time. Arin blinked, stunned. "How is this even possible?" he whispered.
He reached inside and began pulling out its contents. The first was a stack of files, their edges slightly yellowed but otherwise pristine. He flipped through them, recognizing the familiar logo of his grandfather's small pharmacy. Though not large, the pharmacy had been renowned for its quality and care.
Next, there were files for a clothing company his grandfather had once run. Arin had heard stories about it—a modest business but well-loved by its customers.
And then, his hands froze as he pulled out another file. His eyes widened as he read its contents. It was a record of all his grandfather's bank accounts.
His jaw dropped when he saw the balance. "Twenty million dosh?" he exclaimed, his voice echoing in the attic. He sat back, shaking his head in disbelief. "Grandpa, you were holding out on us!"
Though it wasn't enough to rival the top 100 most wealthiest person in the city, but to Arin, it was an unimaginable fortune.
He dug further into the box, pulling out several wads of cash. His excitement grew with each discovery. But then, at the bottom, something caught his eye—a smaller, sleek box tucked away in a corner.
His heart raced as he lifted it out. The moment he touched the smooth surface, the box responded with a soft hum and opened automatically. Inside was something he had only dreamed of—a storage system.
"A space capsule," he whispered, awe-struck. It was a marvel of technology, capable of storing vast amounts of items in a compact form. He had always wanted one but never imagined owning it.
He pressed a small button, and a holographic space appeared, its dimensions stretching far beyond what the physical box suggested. Grinning, he carefully placed the files, cash, and other items inside. The storage system closed with a faint beep and fit snugly into his pocket.
Descending the attic stairs, Arin's thoughts were racing. The wind had died down, leaving an eerie stillness in its wake. The house seemed to hum with an unspoken energy, as if it shared his sense of discovery.
Once in his room, he sat cross-legged on his bed, his mind buzzing. He stared at the storage system in his hand, then at the room around him.
"There's no way I'm going back to that house," he said firmly, his voice steady with resolve. His fingers curled tightly around the capsule.