The storm started just after sunset. Rain streaked the windows, lightning split the sky, and the wind howled like a living thing.

Elias paced the cramped attic, the old wood creaking beneath his sneakers. He was looking for a box of his grandmother’s photo albums — or at least, that’s what she told him. But something about the way she’d sent him up here tonight felt… off.

The flashlight beam swept across dust-choked shelves, stacks of yellowed newspapers, and cracked porcelain dolls with eyes too wide.

And then he saw it.

Tucked in the farthest shadowed corner, half-buried beneath a moth-eaten quilt, was a wooden chest no bigger than a shoebox. It was so black it seemed to drink the light from his flashlight. Strange silver symbols shimmered along its edges — shapes he didn’t recognize but felt like they were staring back.

As he crouched, the attic temperature dropped. The air became heavy, like something was pressing on his chest. A faint whisper brushed his ear — words he couldn’t understand.

He shivered and stepped back.
That’s when the stairs creaked 

“Elias,” his grandmother’s voice snapped him out of his trance. She stood at the top of the attic steps, her usually gentle eyes shadowed and hard.

“You found it.” Her voice was low, almost resigned.

Elias pointed at the chest. “What is it?”

She hesitated — then motioned for him to follow her downstairs. The living room felt smaller than usual, lit only by the flicker of the fireplace. She sat him down and began to speak in a voice that carried weight.

“There’s an old story in our family… older than this house, older than me. They say the first woman, Pandora, was given a box by the gods. Inside were all the world’s evils — disease, war, despair — and one last thing… hope.”

Elias smirked. “That’s a myth.”

Her eyes didn’t soften. “Myths don’t whisper your name.”

He froze. “What?”

“That box in the attic,” she said, leaning in close, “has been in our family since Pandora’s time. And it doesn’t wait to be opened. It chooses someone when it’s ready. That’s why you have to stay away from it. No matter what it says. No matter how it makes you 

That night, Elias couldn’t sleep. Her words rattled around in his skull, echoing louder than the rain against his window.

By midnight, he was back in the attic.

The box sat exactly where he left it, but now it felt… awake. The silver markings pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat.

He knelt in front of it. His fingers hovered over the latch. He didn’t want to open it, but he couldn’t make his hand pull away. It was as if the box knew exactly which string to pull in his brain.

Elias… The whisper was clear this time, soft and coaxing. Don’t you want to know what’s inside?

His heart pounded. He flicked the latch open.

The lid creaked upward, and a strange golden light spilled out — warm, soft, inviting. It felt like standing in the sun after a long winter.

In the center of the glow floated a single shimmering ember. Hope.

But in its shadow, something darker coiled — a cold, smoky presence that slid into his chest before he could breathe.

The ember winked out.

Days passed, but something was wrong. Elias’s friends stopped calling. Strangers avoided his gaze. Even his grandmother seemed afraid of him.

Every reflection — in mirrors, in windows, in puddles — showed a flicker of someone else’s face behind his own.

And in his mind, a single emotion grew, twisting everything he thought he knew: resentment. It seeped into his thoughts, his dreams, his voice. Every joy was spoiled, every kindness doubted.

One night, he woke to find the box sitting on his desk — though he had locked it back in the attic. The silver symbols were brighter now.

We’re not done yet, the voice purred in his head. You are mine until the ember dies.

Finally, desperate, Elias went to his grandmother.

“You knew this would happen!” he shouted. “You knew it would pick me!”

Her hands trembled. “Of course it did. You’re the one it’s been waiting for.”

“Why me?”

She looked at him with something between pity and fear.

“Because you’re not just my grandson,” she whispered. “You are Pandora’s son.”

His chest tightened. “That’s impossible—”

“Not in the way you think,” she said, stepping back. “Pandora’s children have been reborn in every generation. Always drawn to the box. Always feeding it. But you…” Her eyes darted to the dark window, as if listening for something outside. “You are the first to open it without releasing hope.”

The room grew colder.

From the corner, the box began to hum.

Elias turned toward it just as the lid creaked open — on its own.

Inside was no ember. Only the darkness.

And it was hungry.