I said goodbye to my friends at the corner of my street, still buoyant from my conversation with Mr. Davies. I was almost home, ready to toss my backpack down and dive into logarithms, when I slowed down.
My eyes landed on the familiar sight of the front porch steps, but something was wrong. Something was missing.
The worn, brass-plated hook beside the back door, where my dad always hung his key chain—the one with the bulky fob for the basement door—was empty.
My internal monologue: Dad must have just left it in his caror pocket. It happens all the time.
But then, I looked down. Lying on the welcome mat, directly at my feet, was a single, heavy key. It was old, dark iron, unlike the silver house key I used. It was the distinct key for the attic. My parents kept it hung up inside a closed, antique cabinet in the hall—a spot they hadn't touched in years.
I knelt down, picking up the key. It was ice-cold. It hadn't been there when I left that morning; I would have stepped on it. I looked back down the street. Empty.
Then I noticed the thread.
Stuck to the jagged edge of the key's bow was a single, minute fragment of metal, glinting dully in the sunlight. It wasn't dust. It was an extremely fine, tarnished silver thread. It was the same dull color as the metal in the twisted wreath pin, but thinner, almost like a piece of wire.
My brain, screaming: The basement key, the attic key... The attic where the parents said they kept the 'random, sad' old things!
My parents had just told me they kept the attic locked up. They had just told me the story was over. They had just assured me they were protecting me.
But here was an object—a key that should be safely put away—lying exposed on the mat, with a piece of what looked suspiciously like sacred metal stuck to it. It hadn't been there before. It had to have been deliberately placed.
The weight of the silver key in my palm suddenly felt immense, crushing the morning's cheerfulness. My blood ran cold, and the Algebra II exam vanished entirely.
My parents hadn't just lied to protect me from a sad story; they were hiding a truth locked away in the attic. And someone, or something, had just delivered the physical key and the irrefutable evidence to force me to find it.
I looked at the Warding Thread that was likely strung up over the front door, realizing its purpose. I was inside the shield, but the outside was fighting hard to pull me out.
My intuition was no longer a quiet whisper. It was a loud, demanding roar. I knew exactly where I had to go.