The box sat heavy in Tony's hands. Not by weight—physically, it was light enough—but something about it
resisted motion, as though it wanted to remain untouched, rooted in the moment he received it.
He stared at it for a long time, standing in the dew-drenched fog that curled around his boots. The old
woman was nowhere to be seen. Not even footsteps lingered on the muddy path from which she'd come.
The silk-wrapped parcel trembled slightly when he moved, not from wind, but something internal—like a
breath caught mid-sigh. Tony blinked and stepped back onto the road, unsure what to do with the strange
gift. Curiosity battled apprehension in his chest.
When he reached home, Clara was already at the kitchen table, sipping tea with Edith. The air inside felt
warm and bright, a stark contrast to the morning's chill. She looked up at Tony and frowned slightly.
"You look like you've seen a ghost."
"Not quite," Tony replied, setting the box on the table. "But I might've met one."
Clara approached cautiously, eyes narrowing. "What's this?"
Tony explained the brief encounter as best he could, though words failed to capture the surreal weight of it.
He described the old woman's strange words, her disappearance, and the overwhelming stillness she left
behind.
Edith crossed herself. Howard simply stared, brow creased.
Clara, however, looked intrigued.
"She said, 'He's been looking for you?'" Clara repeated. "That's… not comforting."
"I know," Tony admitted. "But I can't stop thinking about it."
Over the next few days, the box refused to leave his thoughts. He took it with him to the shop, setting it
gently on a shelf while he worked. Merrin gave it a glance but said nothing. Perhaps even he felt something
off.
Tony found himself distracted. He misidentified a set of coins from the Holy Roman Empire and nearly
dropped a glazed ceramic bowl from the 14th century. Clara noticed. She stopped by more frequently,
bringing pastries and excuses, always keeping one eye on the box.
At night, Tony dreamed.
Soft melodies hummed from dark corners.
Wood creaked beneath unseen steps.
And laughter—never loud, never close—fluttered just at the edge of hearing.
He would wake with the melody still echoing in his ears, sometimes whispering it under his breath before
realizing he didn't know the tune.
One evening, Clara arrived just before dusk. She found Tony in his study, sketching the box for the fifth
time. Each drawing looked identical—perfectly replicated as if etched from memory.
"This is becoming obsession," she said softly, brushing hair from his brow. "You haven't been yourself."
Tony looked up, hollow-eyed. "It wants something. I can feel it. Like it's waiting."
Clara sat beside him, taking his hand. "Then maybe we need help. Maybe… someone spiritual? A priest?"
Tony hesitated, then slowly nodded. "Maybe. But I won't bring it."
That night, he wrapped the box in linen and carried it deep into Bramble Hollow. The woods, cloaked in fog
and stillness, seemed to hold their breath as he dug a shallow hole beneath a crooked ash tree and placed
the box inside.
He whispered, "Stay buried."
And left, unaware that something had already begun to stir.