The walk home was quieter than usual.
Ezra kept replaying what had happened in the time-space field. That moment when everything froze—the ticking clock inside his chest, the pressure, the resistance. It wasn't just energy or speed.
It was alive.
And it was watching him.
He shook the thought away as his house came into view. A two-story worn brick building with a slightly slanted roof and a crooked mailbox that had been broken for months. It looked peaceful, like nothing inside could be complicated or dark.
But lately… Ezra wasn't so sure.
He stepped onto the porch and opened the front door. The scent of garlic and tomatoes wafted from the kitchen.
"Ezra!" his mother called. "Dinner in fifteen!"
"Okay!" he called back, forcing a smile as he slipped off his shoes.
The living room was dim. On the couch, hunched over a chessboard with no opponent, sat his father—Mr. Blake Muller. A quiet man with graying hair, a permanent limp from an old construction injury, and a stare that could cut through steel.
"Hey, Dad," Ezra said.
His father didn't look up. "You're late again."
"I stopped by the library," Ezra lied quickly.
His dad moved a pawn across the board. "Next time, tell your mother."
Ezra nodded. That was as close as Blake Muller got to a warning. He walked past, heart slightly elevated, wondering—Did he see the blood from earlier?
In the hallway, a blur ran past him.
"Ezraaaa!"
A small body slammed into his legs.
"Hey, hey, careful." Ezra laughed and knelt. "You'll knock me over."
His little sister, Ivy, grinned up at him. Seven years old, missing one front tooth, and with the boundless energy of a hurricane. She wore a cape made from a towel and a plastic tiara.
"I'm Queen Ninja!" she announced.
"Powerful title," Ezra said. "Do Queen Ninjas do homework?"
Her face scrunched. "Homework is for peasants."
Ezra ruffled her hair. "Then I guess I'm a peasant."
"You're my brother. So you get a royal pass."
Ivy skipped away, humming something off-key.
Ezra stared after her, the smile fading slowly from his lips.
Ivy can never know. Whatever this power was… whatever danger it brought… she had to stay safe from it.
Dinner passed in a blur of clinking forks and quiet conversation. His mom asked about school. His dad made a comment about grades. Ivy tried to feed the dog broccoli.
Everything looked normal.
But Ezra's ears kept ringing.
Something felt off.
Later that night, while the house slept and the moon painted shadows across his bedroom walls, Ezra stood at his window.
That sensation from earlier—that someone was watching him—it had returned.
Only now… it was closer.
He turned sharply.
Nothing.
He crossed the room, opened his door, and stepped into the hallway. Moonlight spilled through the upstairs window, bathing the hall in silver.
Then he heard it.
Knock. Knock.
Two soft knocks. Not from the front door.
From the attic.
Ezra froze.
The attic door was just down the hall. It hadn't been opened in years—not since Grandma Ruth died. No one in the family ever talked about her room up there. It was just… sealed off. Forgotten.
But now…
Knock. Knock.
Again.
Ezra stepped forward slowly, heart hammering. Each creak of the wooden floor felt like it echoed into another world.
He reached the pull-string.
Hesitated.
Then pulled.
The stairs unfolded with a groan.
He climbed.
Each step heavier than the last.
At the top, he pushed the hatch open.
Dust swirled in the moonlight. The room smelled of mothballs and something older—something wrong.
He stepped inside.
And immediately felt the change.
The air was still here. Dead. And yet, something moved—just at the corner of his vision.
An old rocking chair stood in the middle of the room, facing away.
It rocked once.
Then stopped.
Ezra's voice was barely a whisper. "Hello?"
Silence.
He stepped closer.
On the floor near the chair, something glimmered.
He bent down. It was an old photograph.
Three people. A young Blake Muller. A woman he didn't recognize. And a child.
Not Ivy.
Not Ezra.
Someone else.
He looked up—and the rocking chair was now facing him.
Empty.
Ezra backed away, breath shallow.
The photograph crinkled in his hand.
Behind him, the attic hatch slammed shut.