Chapter 264

Olivia

The faint echo of the twins’ soft breathing still played at the edge of my hearing as I stood before the heavy basement door. It felt like a threshold to another world, a realm holding the whispered secrets of the past. The cool touch of the doorknob in my hand was a stark contrast to the warm afterglow of the nursery.

Slipping the baby monitor into my pocket, I descended the stairs. As I did, the memories of past visits to the basement, specifically my aunt’s secret archive, came rushing back.

But I couldn’t start there. Not before I had tackled the mountain of boxes in the basement. Only then, if I couldn’t find the peridot, could I move on to the archive itself.

The basement was a treasure trove of memories, a space where the past met the present. Each box seemed to have a story of its own, and as I sifted through costumes and toys from days gone by, I couldn’t help but get a little lost in the whirlwind of emotions that accompanied each item.

In the midst of this exploration, my fingers brushed against something soft and familiar—a worn picture book. The instant I recognized it, I felt as though I was transported to another time, another place…

The room was dim, the air heavy with the scent of illness. I lay on my aunt’s plush guest bed, feeling like I was drowning under the weight of the flu. The world outside seemed muffled, and the brightness of the day did little to lift the shadows that seemed to be closing in on me.

Suddenly, the door creaked open, revealing the silhouette of my usually aloof aunt. Much to my surprise, she approached, holding a tray that carried the promise of relief.

“Olivia,” she said softly, her tone gentler than I’d ever heard before. “I made you some soup and tea. It should help.”

I managed a weak smile, my throat too sore for words. “T-Thank you, Aunt Gertrude,” I whispered, the effort making me cough.

She set the tray on the bedside table, a small frown of concern marking her features. But then, from behind her back, she produced the very picture book I now held.

“I also… thought you could use a little distraction,” she remarked, her usual stern voice tinged with the slightest hint of warmth.

I blinked in surprise, a rush of gratitude coursing through me. “You’re going to read to me?”

She chuckled softly, settling beside me on the bed. “Just this once, I suppose.”

The tale she wove was captivating—a story of a brave little girl named Lila who lived in the heart of the woods. As Aunt Gertrude read, her voice transformed, bringing to life every character, from the cunning fox to the wise old owl.

“‘But Lila wasn’t afraid,’” she read, putting on a brave voice for the young protagonist. “‘She knew that the woods held secrets, but she also knew she belonged there.’”

I listened, enraptured, my pain momentarily forgotten. At some point, she went off-script, adding her own spin to the tale. “‘You see,’” she continued, leaning in close, “‘Lila had a gift. She could speak to the animals, understand their worries and joys.’”

I laughed weakly, my feverish mind imagining the scenes. “Did she talk to squirrels, too?”

Aunt Gertrude smiled, her eyes twinkling. “Oh, especially the squirrels. They were the biggest gossips in the woods.”

The hours seemed to melt away as she read, each page a testament to a side of her I rarely saw. When she finally closed the book, I looked up at her, my eyes glassy but grateful. “That was... nice. Thank you.”

She ruffled my hair affectionately, a soft smile playing on her lips. “Rest up, Olivia. There are more adventures waiting for you.”

…When I finally snapped the book shut, a plume of dust shot up, bringing me back to the present. I hadn’t realized it, but a tear had made its way down my cheek. I quickly wiped it away, shaking my head.

“Oh, Aunt Gertrude,” I said, managing a weak laugh. “You were something else.”

Just then, however, the door to the archive caught my eye. I felt oddly drawn to it, and set the book back down, making my way over.

Nathan and I had uncovered the secret chamber almost by accident, and what lay inside was a testament to generations of history and hidden knowledge. Yet, with every step, the weight of the present concern pressed on me, ensuring my thoughts remained anchored in the urgency of now.

The dim light shining through the tiny windows barely held back the shadows, casting a soft, ambient glow over the entrance to the archive.

Pushing aside the thick curtain that obscured its entrance, I stepped inside. The room was a hushed sanctuary filled with the distinct scent of aged paper, leather, and faint traces of ink.

Row after row of ancient books, scrolls encased in delicate glass, and manuscripts bound in weathered leather surrounded me. They whispered stories of eras gone by, but their tales, for now, were not my concern.

The mission was clear: find any hint or trace of the peridot, the stone from the sea, and hope beyond hope that it was the second artifact.

As I moved between the aisles, fingers brushing over the aged spines of books, I muttered soft affirmations to myself. “It has to be here. She wouldn’t have kept it far.”

Time, within the confines of the archive, seemed to blur. The world outside faded, replaced by a silent cocoon of history. Every container I opened, every page I turned, brought a mixture of hope and apprehension.

“This can’t be it,” I murmured, setting aside a scroll detailing the lineages of ancient wolf packs. “This is not what I'm looking for.”

Each moment stretched, punctuated by the rustle of turning pages and soft sighs of frustration. On one shelf, I discovered old maps, detailing lands long lost to time. On another, treaties and covenants signed between warring wolf packs. The diversity and depth of knowledge were overwhelming, but none of it hinted at the location of the peridot.

Sitting back on my heels, I gazed around the room in exasperation. “It’s all just books and papers. Maybe I was mistaken. Maybe it isn’t here.”

The weight of disappointment was crushing. Was I chasing a mere shadow? A figment of misunderstood hints and fragmented memories? Clint’s words echoed back to me. There had to be a connection.

Rubbing my temples, I took a deep breath, willing myself to think. My aunt had always been a woman of layers, of hidden depths. Each of her stories, each item she had collected, had a purpose. I couldn’t give up now. Not when so much was at stake.

Pushing myself to my feet, I began to scan the room once more, not for what was immediately visible, but for what seemed out of place.

And then, my eyes caught it.

It was a simple painting, hung with care among the more aged artifacts. A small depiction of the sea, waves crashing with fervor against the shore under a stormy sky. The scene, though serene in its own chaotic beauty, was undeniably out of place amongst the texts and scrolls.

But it wasn’t just the beauty of the scene that drew my eye. It was something else. I squinted, feeling a pang in my chest. Was that… writing, along the bottom edge of the painting?

I was drawn to it, each step towards the painting heavy with a mix of anticipation and dread. Why had I never noticed this before?

I leaned closer, reading the tiny text, scrawled in black along the deep blue color of the sea so that it was barely visible.

“Behind legends lie truths, behind oceans lie treasures,” I read aloud, furrowing my brow. “What does that mean, Aunt Gertrude? Unless…”

My fingertips hesitated for a mere second before touching the cool surface of the frame. The painting itself was masterfully done, the details of the raging sea captured with a precision that made it seem almost alive.

It took me a moment to decide what to do. The painting felt like a piece of a puzzle, one I hadn’t known was missing until now.

Behind oceans lie treasures…

With a final deep breath, I decided to pull it off the wall, hoping it would reveal something—anything—of value.

The world seemed to pause as the painting came away, revealing not the expected stone wall, but the sturdy door of a metallic safe nestled within the stone wall. My eyes widened.