They stepped into the cabin, and the door thudded shut behind them, locking out the fake woods and dropping them straight into a cosy, cluttered living room. The space looked like someone had tried to decorate using equal parts thrift stores and old fairy tales.
Miscellaneous objects were scattered everywhere: framed sketches, piles of mismatched books, lace doilies, children's toys, and wooden boxes with suspicious hinges. But even with all that chaos, Acheron's gaze was immediately drawn to the massive stone fireplace dominating the far wall. It looked old but also majestic; he couldn't help but gravitate toward it almost instinctively.
He passed an overstuffed, ancient couch and a child's rocking horse that creaked even though no one touched it. A large coffee table sat in front of the couch, with a beautifully patterned tea set arranged neatly on top. The set looked fancy, like porcelain painted with tiny gold leaves.
Aviv picked up a teacup with the delicacy of someone expecting it to be fragile crystal, but with a gentle Click, he quickly discovered that it was plastic.
He burst into laughter, loudly and with full commitment; he felt silly for his expectations.
"Of course it's fake," he groaned dramatically, placing it back into its saucer with exaggerated care.
Acheron glanced over, trying not to smile too visibly, but he failed. His shoulders were trembling a little.
Aviv straightened up, noticing an entire wall plastered with photographs, hundreds of them, all in different shapes and sizes. Some were tinted sepia, others bright and crisp. He scanned each one with suspicion, lifting a few off the wall to peek behind them, but only a blank wall greeted him.
Meanwhile, Acheron was quietly inspecting the fireplace mantle. His fingertips brushed across the decorations placed on top of it; there were tiny ceramic figurines, small pots of plastic plants, and finally a neat stack of books. He ran his fingers across the book spines, only pausing on the thickest one, and he pulled it out gently.
It was a faded children's illustration book. Soft pastel colours, whimsical borders and old folklore drawings that looked like they belonged in a museum brochure.
Acheron's breath caught slightly. On the spine stood the publisher's logo, the familiar curling vine and crescent, which was the same as The Riddle House's logo.
His pulse quickened with that familiar, sweet spark of discovery.
He carried the book carefully to the couch, sitting on the edge with his knees tucked close, almost unconsciously making himself small as he opened it. He skimmed the index first and discovered ten stories, none of which he recognised.
He didn't bother reading. Instead, he flipped through the pages, letting the dreamy illustrations wash over him. There was something gentle about his focus, the way he examined each page as though it deserved reverence.
Then his eyes caught something—
A delicate drawing of a tea set. The exact same tea set sat on the coffee table, currently right in front of him.
Acheron perked up immediately, almost like a startled kitten who spotted a toy. He stood and crossed to the table, leaning in to study the pattern printed on the cups. Then he flipped back to the start of the story. His voice was soft, barely a notch above a whisper, but full of certainty.
"I think this is it," he said, glancing at Aviv with a shy flash of triumph. "This story… it has the same tea set."
He flipped through the pages, decided not to read anything, and just focused on each drawing. He appreciates its unique, whimsical style. As he paged, he spotted a beautiful tea set and recognised it as one of the objects in the room with him currently.
Eron walked over the set, studying the integrated design pattern printed on it. He flipped back to the beginning of the story and read it out loud for Aviv to hear as well.
Aviv drifted over to Acheron like a moth drawn to a very pretty, very focused flame. He leaned over Acheron's shoulder, close enough that a few curls of his hair brushed Acheron's cheek.
"Read it for me," Aviv begged.
Acheron tried not to smile at the request. His cheeks warmed as he held the book up.
He smoothed the page gently with his thumb.
Then he read aloud for Aviv to hear.
***
The Widow's Tea
Long ago in a fog-soaked port town, there lived a woman known only as The Widow Ashcroft. She owned a small tea shop hidden at the end of a crooked street, a place that never seemed fully open yet was never entirely closed. Locals whispered about her peculiar blends: teas that eased grief, teas that cured nightmares, teas that helped people forget. No one ever saw her purchase supplies, yet her shelves were always full.
After her husband vanished at sea, the Widow kept mostly to herself, but she was said to have offered one special brew to rare visitors—a tea that revealed secrets. What made it strange wasn't just its flavour, but the ritual: she insisted the drinker prepare it exactly as instructed.
The recipe was always spoken, never written:
two scoops of black tea for sorrow,
three pinches of dried jasmine for memory,
and four drops of elderflower concentrate for truth.
If made with the wrong balance, the tea tasted bitter and did nothing. But if made with precisely the right combination, the liquid shimmered faintly, and once the cup was emptied, something hidden would appear. Some claimed it revealed names written in steam, others said the last sip held a key-shaped swirl of leaves, pointing to what was lost.
After the Widow herself vanished years later, townspeople found her shop locked from the inside. On the tea counter sat a single ceramic cup, cold and empty. Beneath it lay a note burned around the edges:
"Only when sorrow, memory, and truth are poured in proper measure
does the hidden unlock itself."
Since then, the shop has remained untouched, the recipe spoken only in hushed tones. It is said that somewhere in the room, a key or solution rests in plain sight, but it will only reveal itself to the one who remembers the Widow's proportions.
***
Aviv studied the drawings over Acheron's arm, humming thoughtfully. Then, without warning, he dropped down to the ground.
"Hold on," he muttered, pushing his face dangerously close to the table's edge. "This isn't a coffee table."
Acheron blinked. "It… isn't?"
"Nope." Aviv tugged one of the tiny drawers open. Then another and another. "It's an apothecary table."
Inside several of the drawers were little tubes filled with liquids in every colour imaginable. Each tube had a tiny handwritten label with ingredient names. Acheron's eyes softened with recognition.
"Black tea, jasmine… elderflower."
He tapped the illustrations in the book. "These three were in the story."
Aviv was already holding a teacup with both hands like it was a sacred relic. "Alright, how many of each?"
Acheron cleared his throat, a tiny bashful habit of his. "Two scoops of black tea first… do you see a measuring cup or spoon?"
Aviv rummaged through the drawers with the reckless determination of someone searching for hidden treasure. Eventually, he pulled out a tiny spoon and held it up triumphantly.
"Behold," he declared, "the smallest spoon known to mankind."
Acheron bit back a smile as he accepted it. "Looks perfect."
Aviv held the teacup steady while Acheron poured two spoonfuls of the brown "black tea" liquid. His hands were gentle, his brows a little scrunched in concentration. He looked so… earnest when solving puzzles.
"Okay," Acheron murmured, tapping the page with his thumb, "next is three pinches of jasmine."
He stared at the light purple tube helplessly. "But… how do you pinch liquid?"
Aviv sighed dramatically. "I swear I've looked through these drawers a hundred times, and I've seen... wait, what is that?"
He fished out a small folded note that had been stuck flat against the bottom of a drawer. He opened it and read aloud, "Half a scoop is a pinch."
Acheron lit up. "Oh! That makes sense."
"So… a teaspoon and a half?" Aviv confirmed, watching Acheron with exaggerated seriousness.
Acheron nodded and carefully measured the "pinches" of jasmine. Then he lifted the pale yellow elderflower tube and counted each drop under his breath.
"One… two… three… four."
When he finished, he passed the teacup to Aviv like handing off a fragile newborn.
Aviv stirred it dramatically, full bartender flair, before placing it back onto the saucer with a flourish. "Voilà, one cursed cocktail."
Then they both stared at it.
Silently.
Awkwardly.
Suspiciously.
"Do we have to drink it?" Aviv whispered, the corners of his mouth twitching a little.
Acheron's lips parted to answer—
DING!
A soft chime echoed through the room, making both of them jump. One of the small wall-mounted TVs flickered to life, showing a sparkling golden key. Two more key slots beside it remained dark.
Aviv threw his arms up. "Ha! Victory without poisoning ourselves!"
Acheron let out a tiny laugh, although barely audible, it was still bright enough to make Aviv smile wider.
"Should we… I don't know, go through the children's book again?" Aviv asked, offering the book to Acheron with a raised brow.
Acheron took it carefully, fingertips brushing Aviv's for a second. "Yeah. Maybe we missed something."
The next few stories were cute, simple little tales about animals, lost toys, bedtime monsters that turned out friendly, but none of them connected to anything in the room. When they reached the last page, Acheron exhaled through his nose, thoughtful, and flipped right back to the beginning. This time, he moved more slowly. He took his time to really look. His thumb traced tiny circles on the bottom corner of the page, a habit he doesn't know he has. It made Aviv smile without meaning to.
Acheron paused. "Hold on."
This particular illustration was from The Watcher in the Woods, a cautionary tale about not wandering off alone, full of shadows and big, worried cartoon eyes. In the background, barely noticeable, stood a horse painted with a bright red saddle.
Acheron glanced up at the real rocking horse beside the couch. Same red saddle, though chipped and faded after who-knows-how-many hands pushing it back and forth. Before he could even say anything, Aviv was already crouched beside it like a detective mid-episode.
Acheron went back to the illustration. This time, something else tugged at his attention; the horse in the drawing wasn't just standing around. It was facing a single small yellow flower near the edge of the frame. Almost too easy to miss.
"Aviv," he said softly, "do you see any yellow flowers? Could be real or a picture, or… something written, maybe."
They split up again. Acheron scanned shelves and corners with quiet, focused intensity. Aviv, on the other hand, moved like a caffeinated crow hunting shiny objects. Although quick and full of curiosity, he was easily distracted.
After a minute, Aviv suddenly froze. "Wait—the photo wall. I swear I saw flowers somewhere."
Due to his excitement and hurried movement, he entirely forgot about the chandelier. His forehead thumped into it with a loud clonk.
Acheron practically jolted. "Aviv!" He rushed to him like instinct, hands trying to reach for the side of Aviv's face gently. "Let me... are you okay? Let me see."
Aviv laughed through the sting, rubbing the spot. "I'm fine, promise. My skull is thick. Ask anyone."
Acheron's mouth twitched, half-smile, half-worried. "Please don't call head injuries 'fine.'"
"You're cute when you fuss," Aviv teased, ruffling Acheron's hair just because he could. Acheron swatted half-heartedly at his hand, cheeks pink.
They turned back to the photo wall, which displayed over a dozen images of various landscapes, people, or random small objects. Each captured strange little moments frozen in time. Notably, many images depicted bunches of flowers, but none were yellow.
Aviv leaned in closer, squinting like the flowers were trying to hide from him. "I swear, if the clue is behind this wall and we're over here studying botanical propaganda—"
"Just check them properly," Acheron murmured.
Fortunately, Aviv did, and his patience paid off.
"Got it!" he burst out, tapping a photograph with triumphant glee.
Acheron hurried to his side. The picture showed a young man at a picnic, the kind of candid shot taken when someone laughs mid-bite. On his shirt pocket, barely noticeable, was a tiny sunflower pin.
Acheron's eyes widened just a fraction. "You actually found it." His voice was soft, impressed in a way that made Aviv straighten a little. "I don't think I would've seen that."
"Lucky for you," Aviv said, grinning, "I have eyes like a majestic eagle. If that eagle was slightly clumsy and prone to hitting light fixtures."
Acheron covered his smile with his hand. "So… now what?"
Acheron stepped back, eyes flicking between the flower in the photograph, the little rocking horse beside the couch, and the illustration book open in his hands. He studied them like he was lining up puzzle pieces no one else could see. In the illustration, the horse faced the yellow flower. In the room, the wooden horse faced… completely the wrong way.
He frowned softly. "It's backwards."
Aviv leaned in. "Backwards backwards? Or just like, emotionally backwards?"
Acheron gave him a look, one of those small ones that indicate his slight annoyance. "Let's turn the horse to face the flower."
"On it." Aviv grabbed the rocking horse with exaggerated seriousness and rotated it as if performing delicate surgery.
Acheron joined him in front of the tiny TV screen mounted on the wall. They watched it together, close enough that Acheron could feel the warmth of Aviv's arm next to his. After a few seconds, a soft ding chimed.
"There it is," he breathed.
"Man, this waiting-between-clues thing? It's like cardio for my nerves." Aviv wiped imaginary sweat from his forehead with a dramatic flourish.
Acheron let out a small laugh. "Agreed."
He opened the children's book again, drawn back to it like a magnet. The last two clues had been hidden in its pages; it only made sense that the final one would be there too.
He settled onto one of the couches. It sagged pleasantly under him, like it had a story of its own. Acheron tucked his legs slightly to the side, an unconscious, careful posture and began to flip through the pages at a quick rhythm. He reread every story, traced every line of every whimsical illustration until they felt burned into the back of his eyelids, but there was nothing. Nothing new and nothing that clicked.
He exhaled, rubbing the corner of the page with his thumb. "Viv… is there anything around here that grabs your attention? Something you keep noticing?"
Aviv had already done what Aviv did best, which is to wander, touch, lift, poke, and test every object like he was the room's personal inspector. He turned at Acheron's voice and shrugged.
"Mm. Nothing stands out." Then he reconsidered. "But my brain is pure chaos."
Acheron closed the book enough to look at him. "Just call out a few objects? Anything that catches your eye as you walk around. Maybe hearing it will jog my memory."
"Alright, professor," Aviv said with an exaggerated nod and started pacing. "Tea kettle. Knitting basket… a very questionable doily situation on that side table… uh, candle."
Acheron's head snapped up. "The candle. I remember something about a candle."
"Okay, that sounded promising," Aviv said, pointing at him like an excited game-show host. "Where'd you see it?"
"I…" Acheron flipped through pages, fast but focused. Nothing. He flipped more. Still nothing. His brows pinched faintly. "I swear it was in here."
He paused. Then, on instinct, closed the book entirely and turned it over.
The back cover held a single illustration: a candle burning steadily, the flame painted in a way that almost shimmered when the light hit it. It glowed just enough that it felt alive.
Acheron exhaled, soft and relieved. "Here. It's here."
Aviv leaned over his shoulder, "Damn. Sneaky. They hid it on the back cover?"
"Looks like it." Acheron touched the painted flame, his fingertip hovering just above it, almost reverent. "This has to be the last clue."
Aviv grinned. "You know, if this book comes alive and starts talking, I'm leaving you here with it. You two clearly have chemistry."
Acheron rolled his eyes, but he still had a soft, shy smile. It almost glowed a little. "Shut up."
Acheron stood in front of the candle illustration a moment longer, as if waiting for some hidden instruction to reveal itself, but only the painted flame looked back at him. He exhaled, shut the book gently, and walked toward Aviv and the real candle perched on a side table.
Up close, he noticed faint black soot along the rim. "The wick's been lit before," he murmured, tapping the edge lightly. "Did you see any matches?"
"Yeah, somewhere in our potion-making chaos." Aviv crouched immediately, rummaging through the apothecary drawers with practised speed. "Behold, fire sticks." He held up a matchbox.
Acheron took it, their fingers brushing for half a heartbeat. It made Acheron go a little still, like his breath forgot its job. Aviv didn't comment—but he smiled, tiny and warm.
With a flourish, Aviv handed the matches to the Acheron, who swiftly struck one; the flicker reflected in his eyes. He leaned forward and lit the wick. The candle caught immediately, burning steadily and softly.
They both turned to the little TV, waiting.
Acheron chewed the inside of his cheek. "This feels… too easy," he admitted quietly, like he was afraid of jinxing it.
Then a sudden ding, followed by a bright flash, the third key materialised, gleaming like the others, and all three spun together before dissolving into a line of text:
Kitchen unlocked.
Aviv whooped loud enough to startle Acheron and immediately pulled him into a tight hug, arms wrapped around him like he actually meant it. Acheron stiffened for a second, then relaxed, a tiny smile blooming against Aviv's shoulder.
"This is the furthest I've ever gotten!" Aviv said against his ear, practically vibrating with excitement.
Acheron pulled back, amused. "You don't remember the puzzles from your last attempts?"
"No," Aviv snorted. "I mean, I've literally never made it past the second room in any escape room. Like ever. I keep… failing dramatically. It's kind of a talent."
Acheron blinked. "You enjoy escape rooms that much?"
Aviv scratched the back of his neck, suddenly awkward. "Not really. I just… wanted to finish at least one. Felt like something I should be able to do." He gave a breathy laugh that tried and failed to sound casual.
Acheron softened. "Well… you're doing great."
Aviv instantly cleared his throat. "Yup! Anyway... moving on." He clapped his hands once, loudly, desperate to shift the mood. "The kitchen awaits, my friend. Let's go solve whatever weird horror puzzle they've set up for us next."
He strode off toward the unlocked doorway.
Acheron followed, but not before letting his fingers brush the edge of the still-burning candle.