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Coffin Tales

I woke up to another gray morning, the kind that seems to come every other day, where the world outside looks tired and unwilling to start. The sunlight, more like a shadow of its usual self, filtered lazily through the blinds, giving the room a kind of half-hearted glow. It wasn’t exactly a bright day, but then again, I wasn’t feeling particularly bright myself.

The weight of my sleep clung to me, dragging my thoughts down like a fog I couldn’t shake off. I had spent the night tossing and turning, caught between dreams that didn’t quite make sense—faces I didn’t recognize, places that felt too familiar but not quite real. It was the kind of sleep that leaves you feeling more exhausted than rested, as if your mind was trying to escape from itself but never quite managing to break free.

The sound of the kettle whistling broke through the haze, pulling me out of my half-sleep. I groaned, feeling the cold hardwood under my bare feet as I dragged myself out of bed. The apartment felt as lifeless as ever—small, neat, but cluttered with the leftovers of my life. A few books I never quite finished reading, clothes folded in piles but never actually put away, unopened mail that had accumulated over who knows how long. It wasn’t much to look at. No, my apartment was like the way I felt—functional, but devoid of anything that might make me remember the days with any real fondness.

I made my way to the kitchen, grabbed the coffee pot, and filled my mug, watching the steam rise from the hot liquid. It didn’t take much for me to get a little clarity in the mornings. Just enough coffee to wake my senses, to make me feel like I was doing something, anything, to combat the sense of stagnation that had settled over my life.

Sitting at the kitchen table, I stared out the window, barely noticing the world outside. Cars zipped by, people hurried to work, birds fluttered around in the trees—everything was moving, just like always. But me? I felt like I was stuck in some kind of loop. The days blurred together, each one passing without any real change. I’d get up, go to work, come home, rinse and repeat. It was like I was drifting on a conveyor belt, heading somewhere but with no real destination in mind.

My fingers absentmindedly flipped through the stack of newspapers on the table. The usual stuff—politics, local crime, the occasional celebrity gossip. Nothing that ever seemed important enough to capture my attention. I skimmed the headlines, not really reading, just letting my mind wander. The rustle of the pages was the only sound in the room, aside from the faint hum of the refrigerator and the quiet buzz of my own tired thoughts.

And then I saw it.

At the very bottom of the stack, tucked between two ordinary-looking envelopes, was something different. It caught my eye right away. An envelope, thick and heavy, not at all like the usual junk or bills that made up the bulk of my mail. The texture of the paper felt rich, substantial in my hands, and it was sealed with a wax emblem. The kind of seal that felt almost ancient, as though it had come from another time. The emblem was too faded for me to make out, but it didn’t matter. What mattered was the name written in an elegant, flowing script across the front: Elias.

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My breath caught in my throat, though I couldn’t explain why. Elias. It was a name I didn’t recognize, yet it tugged at something deep inside me, like a distant memory that was just beyond my reach. The handwriting was meticulous, almost like a signature, with each letter carefully formed, as if the person who had written it had all the time in the world to get it just right.

I stared at the envelope for a long moment, and for the first time that morning, a strange sense of unease crept in. Who was Elias? What kind of letter was this? My life had never been the stuff of mystery novels or treasure hunts. I wasn’t some romantic adventurer, looking for clues in cryptic letters. I was just… me.

Still, something about this felt important, like it had found me for a reason.

I wasn’t the superstitious type. I didn’t believe in fate or destiny or anything like that. I’d always thought of life as a series of small, forgettable moments strung together in a way that made sense only because we were too busy living them to notice the pattern. But this letter... this felt different. It wasn’t just random. It was as if I had been waiting for it, even if I didn’t know why.

With a sigh, I tore open the envelope. The wax seal cracked satisfyingly under my thumb, and my fingers trembled just slightly as I unfolded the crisp paper inside. The letter itself was short, almost painfully so, but it carried a weight in the few words it contained. The script was the same—elegant, deliberate.

The message read:

*“I know where the treasure lies.

In the heart of the forest, under the ancient oak.

Only I can show you where.

Come. The treasure waits for you, if you dare seek it.”

* Elias*

I read the letter again, then a third time, and for a moment, I just sat there, my mind racing. A treasure? Under an ancient oak? The idea was absurd. I hadn’t heard of any treasure hunts around here. I didn’t know anyone named Elias. This had to be some kind of joke, or a scam, right?

But then there was that pull—something about the words felt familiar. Not familiar in the sense of knowing the person who wrote them, but familiar like the idea of a treasure hidden in the forest was something I had always known, always felt like it should be true, even if I had never thought about it before.

I hesitated, the rational part of my brain screaming at me to crumple the letter and forget about it. But there was another part of me, something deeper, urging me to keep reading, to follow this thread wherever it might lead. For the first time in a long time, I felt something stirring within me. A sense of excitement, of purpose.

I stood up abruptly, my chair scraping against the floor. Without really thinking, I grabbed my jacket, stuffed the letter into my pocket, and started packing a small bag—just enough to get me through a day, in case this was real. A change of clothes, some water, a flashlight.

What was I doing? The voice of reason in the back of my mind was loud, but it didn’t matter. My body was already moving. I was going to find this treasure, or at least see where this path might lead.

As I stepped out of my apartment and into the street, I felt an unfamiliar sense of freedom. The world around me—people rushing by, cars honking, the usual chaos—seemed distant, as if I were standing on the edge of something new. The forest waited, and whatever it held, I felt like it was calling me.

I had no idea what I was getting myself into, but for the first time in ages, I didn’t care.