The weeks following the fire felt like a blur to Evan. He could still hear the roar of the flames in his dreams, see the silhouettes of his parents trapped in the burning house, feel the trembling of the earth as the gas cylinder exploded. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw it. The charred remains of what was once his home haunted his every thought.

Now, living in a place that didn’t feel like home, the house of his aunt Martha, life was cold and strange. The home itself was as rigid and unwelcoming as she was. The large, creaky mansion sat at the edge of town, surrounded by withered trees and a sprawling yard that seemed to stretch endlessly into the gray, barren landscape. It wasn’t the sort of place a child would find comfort in, especially one who had just lost everything.

His aunt, a woman in her mid-fifties with iron-gray hair always tied up in a severe bun, wasn’t exactly the comforting type. She was stiff and distant, always busy with something important, and rarely had a kind word for anyone. Her house was filled with rules—don’t touch this, don’t go there, don’t ask questions. And the attic? That was absolutely forbidden.

"Stay out of the attic," she’d said one afternoon, her voice sharp as she set down a plate of food in front of Evan. "There’s nothing up there but dust and old junk. You’ll get sick if you go rummaging around in it."

Evan had nodded silently, poking at his dinner, though he’d barely eaten since arriving at her house. He didn’t need food. What he needed was his parents, but that was impossible.

Days turned into weeks, and as the gray walls of the mansion began to feel like a prison, Evan found himself wandering more and more. His aunt left him mostly to his own devices, only pausing occasionally to throw a disapproving glance his way or remind him of another rule. His room, which was small and cold, wasn’t much of an escape, so he began to explore.

It was during one of these explorations, when the oppressive silence of the mansion was closing in on him, that he found himself standing before the door to the attic. It was an old, heavy door, slightly ajar, as if someone had forgotten to close it fully.

He hesitated, hearing his aunt’s words echo in his mind—Stay out of the attic.

But curiosity, stronger than his fear, gnawed at him. What was really up there? And more importantly, why didn’t she want him to see it?

With a furtive glance down the hall to ensure his aunt wasn’t nearby, Evan pushed the door open the rest of the way. The hinges creaked loudly, the sound reverberating through the still house. He winced, holding his breath, waiting to hear the familiar clack of his aunt’s shoes marching down the hall. But after a long moment, the house remained quiet.

He stepped inside.

The air in the attic was different from the rest of the house—thicker, cooler, with a musty smell that filled his nose. The ceiling sloped sharply, making the space feel cramped, and the only light came from a small, round window at the far end, casting long shadows across the room.

Dust swirled in the air as he moved through the space, stepping cautiously over piles of old boxes, discarded furniture, and forgotten knick-knacks. The attic seemed like it hadn’t been touched in years. Everything was coated in a thick layer of dust, as if time had stopped in this room while the world below carried on.

Evan walked slowly, his fingers trailing along the edges of an old, moth-eaten armchair, past a cracked mirror leaning against the wall. His eyes scanned the room, taking in the strange, forgotten objects—rusted candlesticks, crumbling books, a broken clock.

There was something eerie about the place. It felt like the kind of room where secrets were kept, where forgotten memories lingered. Yet, there was also something intriguing about it, something that drew him deeper into the gloom.

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He approached a large wooden chest in the corner of the room, its surface scratched and worn with age. It was one of the few things in the attic that wasn’t completely covered in dust, which struck him as odd. Someone must have opened it recently.

Evan crouched down, his fingers brushing the edges of the lid. He hesitated for a moment, feeling a strange, electric sensation run down his spine, but then he lifted the lid.

Inside, beneath a pile of old linens and tattered books, was something unusual. His breath caught in his throat as his eyes landed on a strange object. It was unlike anything he had ever seen—small, almost the size of his palm, and made of a strange, dark metal. The edges were smooth, yet there were intricate, swirling patterns carved into the surface. It glowed faintly, a soft, otherworldly light that seemed to pulse gently, as if alive.

Evan’s hand trembled as he reached out to touch it, something inside him urging him forward, even though every instinct told him not to.

The moment his fingers brushed the cold metal, everything around him shifted.

Suddenly, the attic disappeared. His vision filled with flashes of light and sound, like a kaleidoscope of images, too fast to comprehend. Metallic creatures, tall and humanoid, clashed in brutal battles, their bodies gleaming under strange skies filled with dark clouds. Weapons fired beams of light, cutting through the air with searing heat. The ground trembled as massive machines moved across landscapes torn apart by war.

And then, amidst the chaos, a voice—low, deep, and echoing—called out to him.

“Evan…”

He gasped, stumbling backward, the relic falling from his hand with a soft thud onto the floor. His heart pounded in his chest, and he struggled to catch his breath. What had just happened? The images were so real, so vivid, yet so impossible.

He looked down at the relic, still glowing faintly where it lay. It pulsed with a strange energy, as if it were alive, calling to him, waiting for him to pick it up again. But Evan hesitated, fear creeping into his chest. What was it? Why had he seen those things? And why had the voice known his name?

Before he could think further, a creak from the floorboards outside the attic sent a jolt of panic through him. His aunt.

Frantically, Evan scooped up the relic and stuffed it into his pocket, his fingers fumbling with the fabric. The footsteps grew louder, and he could hear the faint rustle of his aunt’s clothes as she moved toward the attic door.

“What are you doing up here?” Her voice cut through the silence like a sharp blade as she appeared in the doorway, her eyes narrowing in suspicion.

Evan’s heart pounded in his chest, and for a moment, he couldn’t find his voice. The attic suddenly felt stifling, the walls closing in around him. He swallowed, trying to think of an excuse.

“I—I just… I was exploring,” he stammered, trying to sound innocent, but the look in his aunt’s eyes told him she wasn’t convinced.

Her gaze swept over the room, landing briefly on the open chest before flicking back to him. She crossed her arms, her expression cold. “I told you not to come up here. This place is dangerous, full of old things that could collapse at any moment. Do you have any idea what could have happened?”

Evan shook his head, feeling the weight of the relic in his pocket, its faint glow pressing against his skin. He kept his hand pressed to it, as if holding it would keep it hidden from her.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, lowering his eyes.

His aunt watched him for a long moment, her lips pressed into a thin line. Then, with a sigh, she gestured toward the door. “Go back downstairs. Now.”

Evan didn’t need to be told twice. He slipped past her, his heart still racing as he hurried down the stairs. The moment he was out of the attic, he could breathe a little easier, though his mind was still spinning. What had just happened? What was that relic? And why did it feel like it was meant for him?

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Later that night, Evan lay in his small, cold bed, staring at the ceiling as the wind howled outside the window. The relic sat on the bedside table, its faint glow casting shadows across the walls. He couldn’t stop thinking about it—about the vision, the creatures, the voice.

He reached for it again, his fingers tracing the intricate patterns along its surface. The metal was cold, but as he held it, he could feel the faint pulse of energy, like a heartbeat. It was alive, somehow. It was more than just an object.

But what did it mean? Why had it been hidden in the attic, and why had his aunt seemed so desperate to keep him away from it?

Evan turned the relic over in his hand, watching as the light shifted and pulsed. There was a deep connection he couldn’t explain, a feeling that this relic—whatever it was—had been waiting for him. That it had been a part of him, long before he even found it.

As he closed his eyes, the voice from the vision echoed in his mind again, soft and distant.

“Evan…”