Chapter 10: Father and Childhood

  "I want to see that one," he said, pointing at the pen.

  His father frowned and glanced at it. "That one? It's too flashy. Looks like something for girls. A boy should use this kind—looks more powerful."

  As he spoke, he picked up a set of steel-gray pens from the display, their design bold and rigid, and handed them to Lucas.

  Lucas lowered his head and said nothing.

  In the end, it was the father's choice that made it to the cashier.

  That night, the bedroom door opened softly.

  His mother stepped in, holding a light brown paper bag. She was dressed in home clothes, hair clipped behind her ear, looking cautious.

  She closed the door gently and whispered, "This is the one you liked. I secretly went back and exchanged it this afternoon."

  Lucas looked up, stunned.

  Elaine smiled and handed over the pen, lowering her voice as if to protect a fragile secret.

  "Don't let Dad know, okay? Just between us."

  Lucas took the pen and held it, emotions flickering across his face.

  He was happy, of course—but also quietly sad. In this house, even a pen had to be obtained through secrecy.

  A few nights later, he dreamed he was standing on a theater stage.

  In his hand was that pen—the one with the pattern he liked. It had grown enormous, and when he let go, it floated upward as if it had a life of its own.

  The stage lights were so bright he could barely keep his eyes open.

  There was no audience, but heat rose from beneath his feet, climbing steadily up.

  The stage beneath him turned into a vast white sheet. He began to draw—landscapes, faces, memories. The lines appeared of their own accord, trailing from his hand like living thread.

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  Suddenly, a clown appeared from the curtain wing, fox-faced and red-nosed.

  It said nothing—just pointed across the stage.

  There sat a figure, head slumped, motionless in a chair.

  Lucas stared—it looked like his father, but not quite.

  The clown grinned.

  Then—snap!

  It broke the pen in half.

  Lucas shouted in rage, ready to leap forward, but smoke began rising from beneath the floor.

  Flames burst out. His paintings caught fire, paper splitting and curling.

  He tried to flee, leaping off the stage and into the audience—

  Only to see hundreds of identical clown faces staring back.

  He ran, but the more he ran, the deeper he fell.

  The theater was burning, becoming a prison of fire.

  Crackling filled his ears. The heat swallowed him.

  He woke with a gasp.

  His chest heaved. His forehead was cold and damp.

  At breakfast, his father muttered, "Where's the car key?"

  Neither he nor his mother spoke. The air froze.

  For ten minutes, his father searched, growing more agitated. Late already, he finally swept everything off the coffee table.

  A painting fluttered up—the key lay beneath it.

  In a flash of fury, his father grabbed the drawing, recently praised, and tore it to shreds.

  "How many times do I have to say it? Don’t leave things lying around! Do you want me to lose my mind?"

  Lucas said nothing.

  He simply stood there, staring at the paper scraps, his fingers quietly clenched.

  That whole day, he felt like he didn't exist.

  Now, beneath the tree, the same pen rested in his palm. Sunlight danced across it, casting a faint golden glow.

  He turned it slowly, as if checking whether it was still there.

  "Hey—Lucas!"

  He looked up. Jake was running toward him, wearing an oversized hoodie, smiling despite being out of breath.

  "There’s a volunteer event tomorrow. Alex and Nora are going. You in?"

  Lucas blinked, then nodded.

  "Sure."

  Jake clapped him on the shoulder. "Awesome. We can form a team."

  Leaves rustled gently overhead. The light shimmered through.

  Lucas stared at the pen like it held a slumbering flame.

  He didn't know if the dream would return.

  But he knew one thing:

  He still wanted to draw.

  Sunlight filtered through the leaves and spilled onto the schoolyard. The scent of baked goods and faint paint hung in the air. The charity fair was in full swing—students enthusiastically called out to sell handmade crafts, colorful balloons bobbed in the breeze, laughter and bargaining filled the scene.

  But Nora hadn’t relaxed yet.

  She’d just slipped out of tutoring. Her heart still raced. One glance at the time told her that her mother still believed she was trapped in a dreary math lesson.

  Nora bit her nail and scanned the crowd, wary of being caught. If she was discovered, this taste of freedom would be gone.

  But none of that mattered right now.

  She found Alex by a stall, engrossed in wooden trinkets, munching popcorn.

  Nora tugged her sleeve, motioning for her to follow.

  Alex raised an eyebrow, confused, mouth still half-full. "What’s going on? You look like you're about to rob a bank."

  "Something crazier," Nora whispered, glancing around before spilling everything.

  The highway. The car. The fox's bargain. The countdown.

  If she didn’t find the girl with the fox tail necklace within a hundred days, she’d be trapped there forever.

  Half the time was already gone, and she had nothing.

  She needed help.

  She expected Alex to laugh, call it a stress-induced dream.

  But the reaction surprised her—