I woke up exactly at midnight, a chilling, absolute certainty jolting me out of a dead sleep. It wasn't a sound or a dream; it was a pure, raw need to be in the attic.
My logical resolution from earlier had evaporated, replaced by an urgent, frantic compulsion that felt less like my own thought and more like a whisper right behind my ear. The key felt like it was burning a hole in the top drawer of my sock chest.
My internal monologue: Now! I have to go now! They're sound asleep. They won't hear a thing. This is the perfect window. Logic is great, but that key on the mat was a command. I can't wait until tomorrow; whatever happens needs to happen tonight.
I slipped out of bed, careful to keep the mattress springs from squeaking. The house was submerged in the deep, heavy silence of the night, every floorboard a potential betrayer. Moving with slow, agonizing stealth, I eased my door open just a crack.
My mission was simple: retrieve the key from my sock drawer, ascend to the attic door on the third-floor landing, and unlock the past. I took a silent, determined step toward my dresser.
Then, I stopped.
My heart plummeted. The key was in my sock drawer. I hadn't taken it out. In my rush, I had started my midnight raid without my most crucial piece of equipment.
My panicked monologue: Idiot! I'm already out of my room! I have to go back in and get it. But if I open and close the door again, it's twice the chance of waking them! Just risk it, Luna, and be quiet.
I took one step back toward my room, intending to retrieve the key, when disaster struck.
Just as I reached my own doorway, the door to my parents' bedroom—located halfway down the hall—creaked open.
They were alarmed by her outside their room and the noise. A thin sliver of light spilled out, and I froze in the middle of the hallway, illuminated like a deer in headlights.
"Luna? Is that you?" my dad's voice was a low, concerned rumble.
"I—I'm so sorry!" I stammered, my pulse hammering against my ribs. I had to think fast, and I had to lie convincingly.
"What is it, honey? Why are you out in the hall?" My mom appeared behind him, her face groggy with sleep and worry.
I clutched my stomach for effect, putting on the most convincing pained expression I could manage.
"It's my stomach, Dad," I whispered, making my best impression of extreme discomfort. "I think... I think the Mac and Cheese from dinner is plotting its revenge. Too much paprika, maybe? I was just on my way to the bathroom."
My dad squinted at me in the dim light. "The Mac and Cheese? You ate that hours ago."
"I know!" I emphasized the 'I know' with a dramatic wince.
"It was... a delayed reaction. I think I need, like, seven bottles of Pepto-Bismol and a prayer. I'll be quick."
My mom, the perpetual worrier, immediately softened. "Oh, honey. Okay. Go on. Do you need a heating pad when you get back?"
"No, Mom, I'm fine. Just need to... wait it out," I mumbled, already backing away.
"Alright. Get back to bed right away," my dad instructed, his voice still edged with suspicion, but clearly accepting the plausible Midnight Tummy Ache excuse. They watched me retreat toward the bathroom, then slowly, cautiously, closed their bedroom door.
I waited in the bathroom for a full five minutes, listening until I heard the faint rustle of their movements stop. Only then did I creep back to my room, skipping the Mac and Cheese vengeance entirely.