Page 34

33

W ith my arm in a sling and my mind buzzing, I follow Dad into his office the next day, eager to uncover my mysterious treasure. It’d better be cool—I’ve earned it.

After all, last night’s adventure landed me in the ER for a sprained wrist, this ugly sling, and mild dehydration. As much as I wanted to go straight to the lab when we got home, Mom and Dad insisted I was in no condition to play detective until I’d gotten some rest.

Closing the door behind me, I hear the sound echo through the bright, sterile office that smells like latex and science experiments. The whole room feels serious, like a place where age-old mysteries get solved.

And standing in the middle of it, I’m pretty sure I’m about to crack one of them.

Dad sets the box down on his massive oak desk, careful not to damage the frame. Dirt crumbles off the edges, scattering across a few manila folders, but the face remains caked in stubborn patches of mud.

My gaze locks onto the carved letters etched into the wood: FOREVER .

Definitely suspicious.

While my little sister was more intrigued by the assortment of stringy cobwebs dangling from the box, I was laser-focused on the contents inside. The box is old, the kind of old that smells like damp wood and secrets. A miniature coffin.

I watch as my dad studies the box, his eyes doing that thing they do when he’s analyzing the data—squinting slightly, flicking back and forth between the object and his mental notes, as if he’s piecing together a puzzle only he can see.

“What do you think’s inside?” I ask, leaning my hip against the desk. “Old love letters? Treasure? A mummified body?”

The box isn’t big enough to hold a body, but there could be a head.

Maybe a femur or two.

Dad’s mouth quirks as he throws me a sidelong look and runs a hand through his mop of curly brown hair. “Why do I get the feeling you’re rooting for the last one?”

“Because I’m your kid, and you have the coolest job in the world.”

His expression softens, a hint of something wistful crossing his face. “Doesn’t always feel that way.” He rubs his palms together and sighs, nodding at something across the room. “Hand me that precision rotary tool kit. The one with the fine diamond-tipped bits.”

I grab the sleek case and place it on the desk.

Dad selects a tool with the care of a surgeon, fitting a delicate bit into place. “This should get us past the lock without damaging anything.”

My pulse quickens as the tool hums to life, its sound a soft promise of discovery. I watch, transfixed, as Dad works the bit along the edge of the rusted lock. Sparks jump like tiny fireflies, and the scent of warmed metal mixes with earthiness. He pauses to inspect his progress, then delicately applies a final nudge.

With a satisfying click, the lock pops open, and Dad leans back with a triumphant grin. He turns to me, setting the tool aside. “Ready?”

Most fathers would probably want to look inside first for fear of traumatizing their twelve-year-old son with a severed finger or a collection of teeth, but not Dad. He might not know I’ve been sneaking peeks at his crime-scene photos since I was five, but he knows I’m into all the weird, gritty details of his job.

I nod, my heart hammering.

Finally, he eases the lid open, and a faint musty smell escapes, like the ghost of something ancient. Inside, nestled in a thin layer of decayed velvet, lies…

Whoa…what is this?

It looks like a small hourglass attached to a tarnished silver chain.

The glass is smudged, and there’s something inside, something I can’t make out. “What the…” I breathe, reaching out before stopping myself. “Can I touch it?”

Dad studies the hourglass for a moment before nodding. “Carefully.”

I scoop it up gently, the chain foreign against my fingers. The hourglass is small, and it feels oddly…alive.

“An hourglass on a chain?” I tilt it, watching the contents inside trickle slowly. “What do you think it’s for?”

Dad leans closer, his brow furrowed. “It could be decorative, or maybe ceremonial. Hard to say.”

“It’s creepy.” I smile faintly, holding it up to the light. “I like it.”

Dad straightens, his tone growing thoughtful. “Let’s not jump to conclusions. I’ll run a few tests on the materials and see if we can trace its origin.”

“Do you think it’s cursed?”

His lips quirk into a half-smile. “Let’s hope not.”

But as he watches me cradle the tiny hourglass, a shadow flickers across his face, brief but unmistakable.

I’m pretty sure this is a mystery even he wasn’t prepared for.