The boy walked along Edenus Seaside Shore with his hands buried deep in the pockets of his jacket.
The beach stretched endlessly in both directions, pale sand meeting a grey-blue ocean beneath an overcast sky. The tide moved slowly, rolling toward the shore before retreating again, leaving thin sheets of water across the sand.
He walked close to the water.
His shoes sank slightly with every step.
There were no other people on the beach.
No footprints besides his own.
The place felt strangely untouched, as if nobody had come here in years.
He stopped and looked toward the ocean.
The horizon was almost impossible to distinguish from the sky. Everything seemed washed in the same dull colour—the water, the clouds, the distant shoreline.
He took a few more steps.
Then he noticed something lying farther ahead.
At first, it looked like a piece of driftwood.
He slowed down.
It was too straight.
Too smooth.
He kept walking toward it.
The waves continued their slow movement beside him as he approached the object, until eventually he was standing only a few metres away.
He stared at it.
And for some reason, he didn't want to get any closer.
A wave came rolling toward him.
It broke against the shore, spread across the sand, and began to retreat.
Something moved with it.
The boy noticed the glint first.
He stepped closer.
A dagger lay in the shallow water, half-covered by wet sand.
He crouched and picked it up.
The handle was made of what appeared to be pure gold, polished enough to catch the faint light beneath the clouds. On one side of the handle was a small white tick-shaped symbol, clean and deliberate against the gold.
He turned it over in his hand.
The blade was strangely clean.
Not a mark of rust.
Not even a speck of sand clung to it.
He looked back toward the ocean.
Nothing.
He looked at the dagger again.
For a moment, he considered throwing it back.
Instead, he slipped it into his jacket pocket.
"Cool."
Then he started walking home.
By the time he reached his house, the dagger had already become an afterthought.
His mind had moved on to other things—the cold air, the distance he'd walked, and the fact that he was probably going to get asked why he'd spent so long at the beach.
He opened the front door.
Warmth immediately greeted him.
So did the smell of food.
"Is that you?" his mother called from the kitchen.
"Yeah."
"You're back early."
He walked into the kitchen and leaned against the doorway.
His mother was standing over the stove, stirring a pot.
"What are you making?"
She glanced over her shoulder.
"Your father's favourite."
He looked into the pot.
"Beef stew?"
"With dumplings."
"Okay, now I'm staying."
His mother laughed.
"You were planning to leave?"
"No. But now I'm definitely not."
She shook her head, smiling as she continued cooking.
"How was the beach?"
"Quiet."
"Just quiet?"
"Very."
"Did you swim?"
"No."
"Walk?"
"Yeah."
She nodded.
"That sounds more like you."
He smiled.
His mother turned back toward the stove.
"You should tell your father I made extra. He'll pretend he doesn't want more and then finish the whole pot."
"He always does that."
"And don't tell him I said that."
"I won't."
She looked at him.
"You look tired."
"I'm fine."
"You sure?"
"Yeah, Mom."
She smiled softly.
"Alright. Go get changed before you sit on my clean couch."
He laughed.
"Yes, ma'am."
He headed upstairs.
His jacket went over the back of his chair, and with it went the dagger.
He didn't notice.
He changed into a T-shirt and sweatpants, washed his face, and returned downstairs.
His mother was still in the kitchen, humming quietly while she prepared the rest of dinner.
He walked into the living room and dropped onto the couch.
The television was already on.
Some evening program was playing, though he wasn't particularly interested in it.
He leaned back.
The house felt comfortable.
Normal.
His mother cooking.
His father still at work.
The television murmuring in the background.
Nothing about the evening seemed unusual.
Nothing reminded him of the object he'd pulled from the ocean.
Upstairs, his jacket remained exactly where he'd left it.
Inside the pocket, the dagger rested against the fabric.
The golden handle caught the faint light coming through the bedroom window.
The white tick-shaped symbol reflected it.
Then the light disappeared as a cloud passed over the window.
Downstairs, the boy watched television, completely unaware that the strange object he'd found at the beach had already entered his home.
Three hours passed before the front door finally opened.
His father stepped inside, tired but smiling.
"I'm home."
His mother immediately looked toward the hallway.
"There you are."
He walked into the kitchen, put his things down, and kissed his wife on the cheek.
"Smells incredible."
"You say that every time."
"Because you keep making incredible food."
She smiled.
"Go wash your hands."
"Yes, chef."
He laughed as he disappeared down the hallway.
A few minutes later, he returned and sat at the kitchen table.
His wife placed a glass of water in front of him.
"How was work?"
He took a drink and leaned back in his chair.
"Somehow, there's always a house on fire in Helen's Field."
She laughed.
"Again?"
"Again."
"So that's where you spent the whole day?"
"Pretty much. We were there for hours."
"That sounds exhausting."
"It was."
He glanced toward the living room.
His son was still sitting on the couch, watching television.
"Hey."
The boy looked over.
"Hey, Dad."
His father smiled.
"How was your day?"
"Pretty good."
"Do anything interesting?"
"The Kingsmere team won."
His father's expression immediately changed.
"They did?"
"Four-one against South Ravenport."
"No way."
"Yep."
His father stared at him for a moment.
"I missed it."
"You missed a really good match."
"Don't tell me that."
The boy laughed.
His father shook his head.
"I swear, every time I miss a match, it's the one everyone talks about."
"Well, you can watch it tomorrow."
"Actually…"
He looked toward his son.
"You want to watch it with me tomorrow?"
"Sure."
"Good."
His father stood.
"Now I'm definitely watching it."
He headed upstairs to change.
The boy returned his attention to the television while his mother finished preparing dinner.
Not long afterward, his father came back downstairs wearing comfortable clothes.
"Alright," he said. "Let's eat."
The three of them gathered around the table.
The food was exactly as promised.
His father's favourite dish disappeared from his plate faster than anyone else's.
His mother noticed.
"You said you weren't that hungry."
"I changed my mind."
"You always change your mind when I make this."
"That's because you make it too good."
The boy laughed.
Dinner carried on like that.
They talked about work.
They talked about the match.
His father complained about missing it.
His mother complained about how much food he had eaten.
His father defended himself.
His son laughed at both of them.
There was nothing unusual about the evening.
No arguments.
No bad news.
No reason for any of them to think that anything was wrong.
After dinner, they moved into the living room.
His father found an old comedy on television.
His mother brought tea.
The boy stretched out on the couch.
They watched together.
Every now and then, one of them would make a comment about the movie, and the others would laugh.
The evening slowly passed.
Eventually, the house grew quieter.
The television was turned off.
His father said goodnight.
His mother followed shortly after.
The boy went upstairs to his room.
He changed, climbed into bed, and fell asleep.
The house settled into silence.
Morning came quietly.
Pale sunlight slipped through the curtains.
The boy opened his eyes and remained in bed for a moment, staring at the ceiling.
Then he finally got up.
He opened the curtains, made his bed, and began putting his room back into order.
Clothes that had been left on the chair went into the closet.
A pair of shoes was pushed neatly against the wall.
He picked up the jacket he'd worn to the beach the previous day and hung it over the back of the chair.
He didn't notice the dagger inside it.
Once his room was clean, he headed downstairs.
His mother was already in the kitchen.
"Morning."
"Morning, sweetheart."
He pulled out a chair and sat down.
"Sleep well?"
"Yeah."
She placed breakfast in front of him.
"Good. Eat."
He smiled.
They ate together, talking casually about the morning and what they were going to do during the day.
When he finished, he picked up his phone.
Then he remembered.
"Oh, right."
His mother looked at him.
"What?"
"The match."
He checked the schedule.
"Twelve."
"Twelve what?"
"PM."
His mother smiled.
"Your father really wants you to watch it with him."
"I know."
"He'll probably make a whole event out of it."
The boy laughed.
"He probably will."
He put his phone away and stood.
"I'll be back later."
"Where are you going?"
"I'm meeting Simon."
His mother nodded.
"Alright. Don't stay out too late."
"I won't."
He grabbed his shoes and headed toward the door.
Before leaving, he looked back at his mother.
"Love you, Mom."
"Love you too."
He stepped outside.
The door closed behind him.
The morning air was cool, and the streets were beginning to fill with people going about their own routines.
He started walking.
The football match was still a few hours away.
Plenty of time to meet Simon.
Plenty of time to enjoy the morning.
And upstairs, hanging from the back of a chair, the jacket he'd worn to Edenus Seaside Shore remained exactly where he'd left it.
The dagger was still inside.
Waiting.
His mother waited until the house was quiet before going upstairs.
She gathered the clothes her son had left behind and carried them toward the laundry room. His jacket was among them, still hanging over the back of the chair where he had left it.
As she picked it up, something heavy shifted inside one of the pockets.
She paused.
Her fingers slipped into the pocket.
They closed around a cold, solid handle.
She pulled it out.
The dagger.
She stared at it for a moment.
"Well, where did you get this?"
She wasn't angry.
She knew her son. If he'd found something interesting at the beach, there was a good chance he had simply picked it up and brought it home without thinking much about it.
"Probably picked it up somewhere."
She turned the dagger in her hand.
The golden handle caught the sunlight coming through the window, sending a bright reflection across the room.
She adjusted her grip.
The blade moved through the air.
Shhk.
She stopped.
Her eyes glowed.
Not brightly enough to illuminate the room, but unmistakably.
She looked at the dagger again.
Slowly, almost without thinking, she moved it through the air once more.
Shhk.
A smile appeared on her face.
There was something beautiful about the sound.
Clean.
Precise.
Almost musical.
She rotated the dagger in her hand, watching the light travel along the blade.
Then she turned it over.
Her expression changed.
There was writing on the other side of the handle.
A name.
Meg M.
She stared at it.
For several seconds, she said nothing.
Then she smiled.
"That's my name."
She wasn't frightened.
If anything, she was fascinated.
Her thumb moved gently over the engraved letters.
"How did you know?"
The question came out almost as a whisper.
She looked toward the stairs.
Her son was already gone.
She looked back at the dagger.
Whatever this thing was, she didn't want him finding out about it yet.
She wrapped it carefully in a piece of cloth and carried it into her bedroom.
After checking that nobody was coming, she opened the bottom drawer of her wardrobe.
She placed the dagger inside.
Then she closed the drawer.
For a moment, she simply stood there.
A strange feeling lingered in her chest.
Not fear.
Recognition.
As though the dagger had somehow known her long before she had ever seen it.
Eventually, she left the bedroom and returned to the laundry.
There was still work to be done.
She loaded the clothes into the washing machine and went about the rest of her morning, trying not to think about what she'd just found.
But every now and then, her thoughts returned to the golden handle.
The white tick.
Her name.
And that sound.
Shhk.
When the washing was finally finished, Meg gathered the clothes and began carrying them toward the bedroom.
She made it halfway down the hallway before she heard something.
Shhk.
She stopped.
Her eyes narrowed.
Another movement.
Shhk.
Meg slowly turned toward the living room.
Her husband stood there.
And in his hand was the dagger.
For a moment, she simply stared.
He hadn't noticed her.
He was moving the blade through the air, watching it glide from one side to the other.
Shhk.
He smiled.
"That's a beautiful sound."
Meg's grip tightened around the clothes.
She walked toward him.
"Where did you get that?"
He looked over.
"This?"
"Yes."
He glanced at the dagger.
"Found it upstairs."
Meg's expression hardened.
"Give it to me."
He laughed lightly.
"Why?"
"Because it's mine."
The words came out more intensely than she expected.
Her husband frowned.
"Yours?"
"Yes."
She stepped closer.
He pulled the dagger slightly away from her.
"Meg, what are you talking about?"
"Give it to me."
He looked down at the dagger again.
Something inside Meg changed.
She didn't simply want it anymore.
She needed it.
The feeling was overwhelming.
It belonged with her.
It was hers.
"It's mine," she repeated.
Her husband tightened his grip around the golden handle.
"No."
He looked at her.
"It's mine."
Meg reached for it.
"Give it back."
He pushed her away.
She stumbled backward and fell to the floor.
The clothes slipped from her arms and scattered across the hallway.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
Her husband looked down at the dagger.
The small white tick-shaped symbol on the golden handle began to shine.
He stared at it.
The light grew brighter.
Meg remained on the floor, staring at the same symbol.
Her anger had disappeared.
So had the confusion.
There was only desperation in her eyes now.
"Give it to me."
He didn't seem to hear her.
His eyes remained fixed on the dagger.
Shhk.
He moved it to the left.
Shhk.
Then to the right.
Shhk.
The sound seemed to have become the only thing that existed.
Meg's voice faded into the background.
"Give it to me."
Nothing.
He slowly waved the dagger again.
Left.
Right.
Each movement produced that clean, beautiful cutting sound.
Shhk.
Shhk.
Meg pushed herself up from the floor.
She stood.
"Please."
Her husband didn't respond.
His fingers tightened around the golden handle.
The white tick continued to glow.
Meg took a step toward him.
And then—
The dagger moved.
It happened so quickly that neither of them seemed to understand what had happened.
The blade drove into his chest.
He froze.
His eyes widened.
The sound stopped.
For a moment, the room was completely still.
He looked down at the dagger.
Then at Meg.
Meg stared back at him.
She didn't understand what she was looking at.
Her husband remained standing for another second before his knees finally gave way.
He collapsed onto the floor.
The dagger stayed in his hand.
Meg stood motionless.
"...What?"
There was no answer.
She looked at the dagger.
Then at her husband.
Then back at the dagger.
The white tick continued to shine.
Something about that mattered more to her than the body lying at her feet.
She slowly walked toward him and crouched beside him.
Her eyes went immediately to the blade.
Blood covered it.
Her expression tightened.
"The dagger…"
She reached for it.
With both hands, she carefully pulled it free from his chest.
She stared at the blade.
Dirty.
She found a cloth nearby and began wiping it.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Again and again, until the blood was gone.
Only then did she seem satisfied.
She held the dagger against herself and hugged it.
"My precious."
The words came quietly.
She closed her eyes.
For a moment, the room was still.
Then the front door opened.
"Mom?"
Meg's eyes opened.
Her son's voice came from the hallway.
He stepped into the room.
And stopped.
His father was lying motionless on the floor.
His mother was standing over him.
And in her hands was the dagger.
He stared at her.
"Mom…"
Meg looked at him.
She saw his face change.
Confusion.
Fear.
Horror.
His eyes moved from her to his father.
Then back to her.
"Mom, what happened?"
Meg didn't answer.
Something inside her seemed to snap.
She raised the dagger.
Her son immediately stepped forward.
"Mom, don't."
She placed the blade against her own neck.
"Mom!"
He rushed toward her.
"Put it down!"
Meg looked at him.
There was almost no emotion in her eyes.
For one brief moment, she seemed to recognize him.
Then her grip tightened.
"Mom, please!"
He reached for her.
But he was too late.
Meg drove the dagger into her neck.
He stopped.
His face went blank.
"Mom…"
She collapsed.
The dagger slipped from her hand and struck the floor.
The boy stood frozen.
He looked at his father.
Then his mother.
Then the dagger lying between them.
The white tick on the golden handle slowly faded.
He couldn't move.
His breathing became uneven.
Then he dropped to his knees beside his mother.
"Mom…"
His hands trembled as he reached for her.
Tears streamed down his face.
He looked at her for a long moment before his eyes moved toward the dagger.
He pulled it away from her and set it on the floor.
He lowered his head.
He cried.
For several seconds, there was nothing else.
Then something caught his attention.
A faint glow.
He slowly lifted his head.
The dagger was shining.
The golden handle reflected a light that hadn't been there before.
The white tick was glowing again.
Brighter.
Much brighter.
His tears stopped.
He stared at it.
The grief on his face slowly gave way to something else.
Curiosity.
He reached toward it.
His fingers wrapped around the golden handle.
The moment he touched it, the light intensified.
He didn't let go.
He couldn't.
The glow spread across the room, swallowing the walls, the furniture, the bodies on the floor.
The boy stared directly into the light.
And then—
Everything went white.
The End.
