I walked back into the house, the old attic key tucked securely into the hidden zipper pocket of my backpack. My parents were still in the kitchen, chatting about their respective work schedules. I knew the drill: pretend everything was fine, maintain the facade of a daughter focused on academic recovery.
"The test was good, Mom, Dad!" I called out, dumping my backpack by the front door—safely outside the direct influence of the Warding Thread, though I didn't know that.
"History crashed. Just need to hit those equations hard tonight. Mr. Davies scheduled my Algebra makeup for next Tuesday."
"That's wonderful, sweetheart!" my mom cheered, already heading toward me for an approving hug. My dad gave me a thumbs-up. They were so relieved, so convinced that their Warding Thread and their neat little cover story had worked.
I went upstairs, but I couldn't focus on my desk. The sight of that key on the mat, the tiny scrap of tarnished silver stuck to it, had incinerated their cover story. The key was my new Algebra II problem, and I had to solve it immediately.
My internal monologue: The attic. It has to be where they hid the Observer's journal—the one about the 'unstable fiancé' who was 'obsessed with occult prophecies.' Why would someone deliberately leave the key for me? And how did they get past Mom and Dad?
I pulled the key from my bag and turned it over in my hand. The weight of it felt like a command. But how was I supposed to use it?
My second monologue: Okay, stealth mission. I can't just stroll up the stairs with this giant iron key while Mom is vacuuming and Dad is on a conference call. I'd be busted before I reached the landing. I could try tonight, after they go to sleep, but they usually check on me. And what if the attic door squeaks? This isn't a movie, Luna, this is real life, where parents have excellent peripheral vision and highly attuned paranoia when they're hiding a secret.
I paced from the window to the door, a knot of frustration tightening in my stomach. The impulse to run up, unlock the door, and rip open the truth was overwhelming, but the voice of caution, the one my parents had so carefully nurtured, was still active.
My final monologue: It's too risky. If I get caught now, they'll confiscate the key, lock the door permanently, and double down on the lies. The stakes are too high. I need a clear window, a guaranteed few hours alone.
The world won't end if I wait one more day.
With a sigh of profound, forced discipline, I slipped the key into my sock drawer, burying it under a pile of fuzzy ankle socks. I looked back at my textbook, the neat, predictable columns of numbers.
"Not today," I whispered to the attic key. "I'll wait for a better chance. For now, I will wait for another day to go search for the old mysteries. Today, I solve for x."
The mystery was postponed, but it wasn't forgotten.
The attic key was now my most treasured, and most terrifying, possession, waiting for the opportune moment to unlock not just a door, but the truth of my destiny.