Henrry's face was pale—his eyes restless, burdened with a silent fear. He followed Mclery without a word, dragged more by curiosity and anxiety than by will. Mclery, on the other hand, seemed focused. If they found the man he had seen the previous day, he believed all their questions might finally find answers.
As they neared the school, Henrry asked hesitantly, "Do you think this stick belonged to that man?"
Mclery nodded. "It could be."
Once near the school, Mclery gestured. "We should check behind the building. That's where the man disappeared. There might be a hidden path."
Henrry hesitated. He didn't want to find that man. Something about all of this—finding the stick, the strange book appearing and disappearing—felt deeply wrong. But he had questions too. Questions that wouldn't let him sleep. So he followed.
They circled the school building. Mclery scanned the surroundings for any concealed pathway, any clue—but found nothing.
"We've been at this school since childhood," Henrry muttered, his voice tight with nervousness. "If there was some secret way, we would've known."
He was right. And yet, the events unfolding defied explanation. He was haunted more by what had happened at Mclery's house —the book, the wind, the window shattering. He just wanted to be rid of that stick.
"What if that man is also looking for the stick?" Henrry said suddenly. "Maybe we should just leave it by the Mchen tree. He might come looking for it there."
Mclery turned to him, eyes lit with determination. "We should find him. Maybe he can explain what this stick is... what this all means."
They went to the Mchen tree, but the man wasn't there.
Henrry felt a strange relief settle inside him. A quiet sense of safety in not finding the man. But Mclery seemed more anxious now, frustrated even. Henrry tried to convince him.
"We've been looking all day. It's almost evening. We should go home—and don't forget, you still have to fix your broken window before Aunty Rose returns."
Mclery nodded reluctantly.
"We should just leave the stick here," Henrry added. "If it's his, he'll take it."
But Mclery wasn't convinced. "What if it isn't his? You know there's something special about this stick. Besides, the man already had a stick like this… maybe this one isn't his at all."
Henrry couldn't understand how Mclery was still so calm, so curious—even after everything.
"I don't want to keep this thing," Henrry said firmly. "If you want it, you take it."
Mclery looked at him seriously. "I can't read what's written on it. But you can. Maybe it's meant for you. Maybe there's more to learn—just like the book. It's safer if you keep it."
Henrry hesitated, then nodded. He tucked the stick away.
The two parted ways and headed home.
Back at his house, Henrry hid the stick under his bed. He came out and sat at the dining table where James, his father, was waiting.
"So, how was your day?" James asked.
Henrry forced a smile. "It was good. I spent the whole day at Mclery's place… we just played video games."
He wanted to forget about the stick. Forget about the book. He didn't even glance at it that night. Exhausted and overwhelmed, he went to bed—and as soon as he lay down, sleep took him.
James sat quietly in his study, the soft ticking of the clock the only sound around him. He couldn't ignore it any longer—Henrry had been acting strange for days now. Distant. Restless. Something was bothering him deeply, and James could feel it in every forced smile, every hurried answer. He thought about speaking to Henrry, to sit him down and ask what was truly going on. But he also remembered how things used to be—when Henrry was just a little boy, and life's worries were much simpler. Back then, whenever something troubled Henrry, his mother would always know. She'd take him out—sometimes to the park, sometimes just for ice cream—and slowly, gently, she'd get him to open up. James missed her in moments like these. Maybe, he thought, a little time outside the house, just the two of them, would help. Maybe Henrry just needed someone to listen.
The next morning, Henrry got ready for school. There was still a trace of anger in him toward Mclery for not letting him leave the stick at the tree.
At school, Mclery found him before class began. Just as he opened his mouth to say something, Henrry cut him off.
"Nothing happened—like you expected it would," he said coldly. "I just hid it under my bed."
With that, he moved to the bench behind Mclery, ending the conversation.
A few minutes into class, a deafening thunderclap shook the school. Lightning strike somewhere close—too close, the sounds of lighting make students screamed and ran into the corridors in panic.
Mclery and Henrry looked at each other—shocked, tense, and deeply afraid.
Henrry and Mclery rushed to the classroom window, hearts pounding. The lightning had struck somewhere nearby—but where?
"There," Mclery whispered, pointing.
In the center of the school ground, the earth was scorched black, smoke rising in twisting tendrils. Around the impact spot, grass had been burnt to a crisp. It was no ordinary lightning strike.
Without a word, both boys sprang from their seats and bolted out of the classroom. Other students were still huddled in the corridors,some whispering nervously—but Henrry and Mclery had eyes only for the ground.
They sprinted toward the field, each step echoing with growing dread. The air smelled of burnt earth and static. As they neared the center of the ground, Henry's breath caught in his throat.
A man was standing there.
Mclery came to a dead stop, his eyes wide. His face turned pale, his lips parted slightly—but no words came out.
It was him.
The same man Mclery had seen the day before. The same long,raincoat. The same strange, burnt markings on his face. He looked just as haunting as McLery remembered—if not more.