Chapter 1 - Grandfather

Rewrote: Same events, different execution - 15/12/2025

He sat, shoulders hunched, jaw clenched.

In front of him sat a sealed wooden box.

“Your grandfather was a schemer,” Hendrix said.

He turned, eyes narrowing.

“My apologies. Poor delivery. Your grandfather never acted without purpose,” he said.

“Why was he so …”

“Distant?” Hendrix prompted.

“I never got him. We spent years together when I was younger.”

Hendrix studied him, already anticipating the answer.

“Our long talks turned into letters on trips, then the letters grew short.”

He stared at the box.

He reached for it.

“Young Master …” Hendrix whispered.

He froze, heartbeat thudding, fingers hovering.

“You don’t have to take it. You could trade it …”

The box’s surface glimmered.

Hendrix fell silent.

His eyes flicked between Hendrix and the box.

“Young Master, beware the language of contracts,” Hendrix warned, his voice flat.

“What?”

He turned and left.

The door closed.

Xxxxx sank into the study chair; his eyes narrowed. “Was Hendrix nervous?”

He leaned forward. “He’s always efficient, never doubts.”

Fear?

He stared; the box’s sheen had dulled.

“Language of agreements and contracts, huh?” He recalled Grandfather’s voice.

He remembered Grandfather poring over parchments and letters, one memory in particular rising from his childhood:

“Imagination. Negotiation. Survival.” Grandfather’s voice echoed.

“What if it’s a trick?”

He stared at the younger man.

“If it’s a trick, remember tricks hide secrets,” Grandfather said, adjusting his glasses.

“Grandfather always knew strange things about agreements and …” His eyes widened.

He stared at the box again.

He stared at the box again, wondering if Hendrix had warned him.

His body recoiled instinctively.

He recalled, “You still have leverage if you haven’t agreed, especially with no witnesses.”

He left me out of the inheritance to force urgency. Fine, I’ll bite.

He steeled himself and touched the box.

Nothing.

He rubbed it. Nothing…

He turned it, lifting it slowly for inspection.

After examining every corner, he lifted the clip, then lid peering inside.

Five blue‑gold coins glinted back at him.

The study door burst open.

“Holy shit!” he hissed.

“Excuse me, sir. We need the office for the next appointment,” the paralegal said, stepping in.

The balcony’s double doors burst open, and a violent gust of wind slammed into the study.

Papers scattered everywhere as the wind howled through the office.

The gust shoved the paralegal against the door.

The room fell silent.

He stumbled backward, knocking the box and its contents to the floor.

He lunged for the doors and slammed them shut.

“Sorry about that. Those doors are usually tighter,” he said, bending to help gather the box and coins.

“It’s fine, I’ve got it,” he muttered, scooping up every glittering coin.

A knot of urgency tightened in his chest. He had to get home and examine the coins.

•••

“The office is spotless, sir. I'm locking up!” the cleaner called out.

She called again, “Sir?” while stowing her cleaning supplies.

While unplugging the vacuum, a golden glint at the desk’s foot caught her eye.

•••

He closed the door and slipped into his afternoon routine.

He showered, then slipped into comfortable clothes; before changing, he emptied the box from his bag onto the coffee table.

Normally he’d order takeout and play video games; today, however, he was compelled to attend the family will reading.

“Everyone says I’m Grandfather’s favorite, yet I got short‑changed in the will.”

He flopped onto the couch.

“Uncle Ben got the manor in Ireland. Aunt Sophia got the art and artifact collection worth millions. Even my cousins got massive cash injections, all three of them…”

He sat up, thinking, What are you scheming, old man?

Leaning forward, he pried the lid open and stared at the coins.

“Ben got nothing. Can you believe it? Ha!” he recalled, hearing Sophia’s laugh.

He sat upright, the memory replaying: “Ben Xxxxx got nothing. Can you believe it? Ha!”

“My name… I can’t remember it. What is it?”

He scrambled for his ID. It was blurred out.

He pulled out his phone, scrolling through personal email, work messages, and texts.

Everything appeared hazy.

He dialed.

“Hello? Xxxxx”

“Theon. Say my name!”

“I just did …”

“Say my name!”

“Whoa there, buddy. I know we’re close friends, but I don’t …”

“Retard. My name. Just say it!”

“I get you’re grieving, but hitting on me and then insulting me is a lot …”

“Seriously?”

“Okay, okay. It’s Xxxxx!”

Xxxxx heard only static.

He stared at the coins, their shine almost innocent.

“Shit.”

“Xxxxx, you alright?”

“I have to go. Later.”

Xxxxx paced the living room.

Languages of agreements and contracts, he recalled.

“I haven’t agreed to anything yet …”

I haven’t agreed to anything yet …

“Symbolism?” Xxxx asked.

“Yes. When objects or actions stand for ideas,” Grandfather shared.

Little Xxxxx nodded, urging Grandfather to go on.

“The things you must watch are actions.”

“Why?”

“Because simple actions can unleash or imprison forces.”

“What kind of actions?”

“Things like eating, walking through a door or opening a box,” Grandfather said, emphasizing the last part.

He muttered, “What the heck? No way he’d say that back then.”

He stopped pacing.

Ting-ting.

He grabbed his phone, only to find a coin already in his hand.

He set the coin on the kitchen counter, then realized his other hand clutched the coin.

His free hand reached for the phone and texted:

[Uncle Ben, is Hendrix with you? I need to talk - urgent!]

Having a plan, however small, steadied him.

He breathed deeply, resolving to act.

“I’m already in this mess. Might as well investigate.”

He trudged to the couch, settled before the box, and lifted the coin, studying it intently.

Blue‑gold spirals encircled a glass core; flipping it, he saw a single blue ring framing the glass.

His gaze locked onto the coin.

He tried to look away, but his eyes stuck; an inner tension twisted while his body stayed frozen.

The box shimmered in the dim light.