The new day entered the house uninvited. The sitting room lay still. Cold shadows stretched from the chairs across the floor. The air carried the cloying smell of ash.

  Victor stared out the window, but saw nothing of the street. His thoughts circled one thing: what if magic is real?

  Mary sat beside him, barely touching the chair. Her fingers clutched a crumpled napkin. On the table near her stood a cup of tea, its surface covered by a thin rainbow film.

  The clock on the mantel struck nine.

  Logan stood by the door, drumming his fingers on the wooden frame. He tried to understand what he was waiting for: explanations, apologies, or simply the end of this silence. Heather kept a little distance, adjusting the sleeve of her robe. She blinked several times, but the fog remained in her head.

  The pause pressed down, finding no outlet.

  George sat in the chair by the fireplace. The coals had long gone out, only grey warmth still lingered in the brick. He turned the cross between his fingers without looking, as if feeling his way back to old decisions.

  “They’re taking too long,” Mary said at last.

  “I’ll go up myself in a minute,” Victor replied, moving away from the window.

  “Let them come to themselves a little,” Heather asked, clasping her fingers. “After a night like that, they need time.”

  Logan looked at his father.

  “There won’t be much time,” he said. “We all need answers.”

  George did not stir. Only the cross paused for a moment in his hand.

  The house listened. The old walls seemed to draw in the air, holding their breath before something inevitable. In the crack between the floorboards near the chair leg, almost invisible in the morning shadow, lay a small shard of the medallion with uneven edges, holding a faint glimmer inside.

  “I don’t want another morning where we pretend everything is normal,” Victor said.

  Somewhere upstairs the stairs creaked. All eyes turned toward the staircase.

  Andrew came down first. He descended holding the banister, feeling the insistent attention on him. It seemed to him that morning was simply a continuation of the night, only without light. A feeling grew in his chest that nothing had ended. It had only begun in a different way.

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  Veronica followed. Her steps were steadier, but tension showed in her shoulders. She saw her mother at the table and her grandfather by the fire, and the thought came at once: they’re waiting for something. It burned sharper than the cold seeping through the thin soles of her slippers.

  They know everything except us… of course.

  Veronica ran her palm along the banister. It was slightly warm. She forced herself not to stop, though each step echoed in her temples.

  Andrew sat first, more to hide than to settle. Veronica remained standing, feeling the silence thicken, filling every pause. Her fingers clenched. She knew: the conversation would start now, and there was no escaping it.

  “Well, everyone’s here,” Victor said dryly. “You slept long enough…”

  Andrew raised his head.

  “We… didn’t sleep.”

  “It shows,” Logan replied. “And not just you.”

  Mary stood.

  “You don’t want to tell us anything?” Her voice was soft, but tension lay beneath it.

  Veronica gave a small shake of the head.

  “We didn’t do anything.”

  “No one said you did,” Victor said, resting a hand on the back of a chair. “Just explain why you ruined your grandfather’s gift. And why with so much noise.”

  “We didn’t ruin it!” Veronica burst out. “It broke from the inside!”

  Andrew wanted to add something, but his tongue would not move. He felt Veronica shift slightly closer, covering him.

  “It wasn’t us,” he breathed at last. “It did it itself…”

  All the adults’ faces turned toward him at once.

  “What did it itself?”

  “The light… from the box,” Andrew stared at his palm. “It flared up, and signs appeared on our hands.”

  For a second no one spoke. Victor paled. His fingers loosened on the chair back. Logan froze, as if struck in the chest. Heather bit her tongue. Their silence held not just shock — they were trying to decide whether this could be believed.

  George leaned back in his chair.

  “Sometimes it’s better to listen than to explain right away,” he said calmly.

  “More riddles,” Logan muttered, rising.

  “Don’t start,” Victor said heavily. “Right now we need—”

  “He knows exactly what’s happening and stays silent,” Logan cut in.

  George stood. His shadow from the fireplace stretched, covering Logan completely.

  “I don’t have to justify myself,” he said evenly. “But if you want explanations, they will come.”

  He turned to the grandchildren. He noticed how Veronica instinctively pressed her palm to her chest, how Andrew flinched at every loud word. And he understood: this conversation would break them. The truth he was about to lay on the table was a burden for adults, but a sentence for children.

  “I think you should get some fresh air,” George said, his voice unnaturally gentle. “Go into town. There’s a fair open. Who knows, you might find something for the two of you, something to replace the box. A thing that will remind you you’re connected, even when you argue.”

  He stepped back toward the fireplace, leaving a lightness in the air that stood in sharp contrast to the tension that had hung there before.

  Veronica nodded, though everything inside resisted. She felt her grandfather’s gaze linger on her a little too long.

  When the door closed behind the children, the room emptied. Near the chair leg, a tiny shard of the medallion trembled, and for a moment a thin golden light flickered in its depths.