Chapter 8: The Worst Day of My Life

I thought discovering the truth would be the end of the annoyance. I was wrong. So, so wrong. It was like I’d finally found the end of a particularly convoluted scavenger hunt, only to realize the prize was a map to an even bigger, more confusing scavenger hunt. And this one, I suspected, was going to be a whole lot more annoying.

The device, this strange, metallic contraption that Dad had finally revealed was capable of showing memories, sat on the dining room table like a malevolent, silent guest. It gleamed under the overhead light, its surface a matte grey that seemed to absorb all joy. Around it, my family sat, a tableau of worried faces. Mom, her usual controlled demeanor fraying at the edges. Dad, his brow furrowed in a way that suggested he was calculating a thousand possible disastrous outcomes. And Michel, bless his irritating heart, looked almost… scared. That was new. Michel usually looked either smug or bored.

Nobody spoke. The silence stretched, thick and heavy, punctuated only by the ticking of the kitchen clock, each tick sounding like another second closer to impending doom. I half-expected a dramatic gust of wind to blow through the room, even though all the windows were firmly shut.