The days blurred together, each one as uneventful as the last. Aiden found himself sinking deeper into the void of uncertainty, unable to shake the cryptic message left by his grandfather.

"Use what only you inherited to open what only you inherited."

The words played on a loop in his head. He tried to distract himself with television, but every joke, every scene, felt hollow. His attention kept drifting back to the box. It sat there, unchanged, stubbornly refusing to give up its secrets. Aiden had thought it might get easier with time, that some new perspective would come if he stepped away. But the more time passed, the heavier the weight of the unanswered question became.

His grandfather’s presence lingered in the silence. The old man had always been such a big part in Aiden’s life, even if they hadn’t spoken as much in recent years. When Aiden was younger, after the divorce, it had been his grandfather who filled the empty spaces, teaching him things his mother couldn’t. The memory of those times—sitting in his grandfather’s study, poring over old books—was bittersweet now.

The phone rang, cutting through his thoughts. Aiden glanced at the screen and saw his mother’s name flash across. He hesitated for a moment before answering, not sure he had the energy for this conversation.

“Hey, Mom.”

“Aiden.” Her voice was soft, but there was a tightness to it, like she had been holding her breath. “How are you doing?”

“I’m… fine,” Aiden lied, even though his whole world felt off-kilter. He sank deeper into the couch, eyes flicking to the box as he spoke.

There was a pause on the other end of the line. “You don’t sound fine. You’ve barely returned my calls.”

Aiden sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I’ve just been dealing with a lot. The house, the inheritance, all of it. I don’t really know where to start.”

“I know, sweetheart.” His mother’s voice softened further, filled with concern. “But you don’t have to do this alone. You’ve got me. Don’t shut me out.”

Aiden bit back the words that rose to his lips. It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate her concern, but their relationship had never been the same after the divorce. When his parents split, Aiden had stayed with her, of course. She had taken care of him, made sure he had everything he needed. But there was always a distance—something unspoken between them. His mother had never fully recovered from the split, and neither had he.

“I’m not shutting you out,” he said, though even he didn’t quite believe it. “It’s just… there’s a lot on my mind.”

“I understand,” she said, though Aiden could sense the disappointment in her tone. “Just… remember that I’m here. If you need anything. I miss you.”

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“I miss you too, Mom.” It felt like the right thing to say, even if it wasn’t entirely true. They hadn’t been close in a long time, and there was a part of Aiden that wasn’t sure how to change that.

“I’ll let you go,” she said after a long pause. “But call me if you need to talk. Or if you just want to. Okay?”

“Yeah, I will.” Aiden forced a smile into his voice. “Thanks, Mom.”

After they hung up, Aiden stared at the phone for a long moment before tossing it onto the couch. His relationship with his mother had always been complicated. He loved her, and she loved him, but the divorce had left cracks between them that had never quite healed. She had done her best, but there were things neither of them knew how to say.

The house felt even quieter now, the ticking of the clock a dull reminder of the time slipping by. Aiden's thoughts returned to the box, the words from his grandfather’s note still echoing in his mind. What only I inherited.

He had spent days trying to figure out the meaning behind it. He had tried thinking symbolically—about the house, the books, the legacy his grandfather had left him. He even considered that the box might be some kind of physical representation of that inheritance, but none of it fit.

At one point, he thought perhaps the box required a specific sequence of touches or pressure. He spent hours pressing different spots on the carvings, feeling for hidden mechanisms, but the box remained sealed, as though laughing at his futile attempts. Each failed effort only deepened his frustration.

There was a moment, late one night, when he thought he might have cracked it. He had been staring at the box, remembering how his grandfather loved to leave clues that were often misunderstood at first glance. The phrase “use what only you inherited” bounced around in his mind.

In a fit of inspiration, Aiden thought the “inheritance” might be his family name—something specific to their bloodline. He even tried whispering his name into the lock, feeling foolish but desperate. Nothing happened. The box remained shut, cold and unmoving.

It was a few days later, as Aiden sat in the quiet apartment, the box in his lap, that the final piece of the puzzle clicked into place. He stared at the brass lock, replaying the cryptic message in his mind. What only I inherited.

The answer was right there, staring him in the face. It wasn’t the house or the name. It wasn’t something abstract or metaphorical.

It was him.

The realization came slowly, but once it did, Aiden couldn’t shake it. The thing only he had—the thing passed down from his grandfather—wasn’t a possession or a name. It was his blood.

His heartbeat quickened, and his breath came in short, shallow bursts as he processed the idea. Could it be that simple? He stood, walking to the kitchen, his mind racing. He reached for the small penknife in the drawer, feeling its weight in his hand.

Slowly, carefully, Aiden pressed the blade against his fingertip until a small bead of blood welled up. He stared at the red droplet, unsure of what he was doing, but feeling an inexplicable certainty deep within him.

Without another thought, he pressed his bleeding finger against the lock.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then, with a soft, almost imperceptible click, the lock gave way.

Aiden’s breath hitched in his throat as the lid of the box creaked open.