16

  The following day, Finn woke up with a weight in his chest. There was no warmth to the morning, no usual excitement over his nearing birthday—only urgency. He dressed hurriedly and rushed straight to the cathedral.

  Father Ben was sweeping fallen leaves from the stone walkway when Finn arrived, breathless.

  “Father Ben… Alice—have you seen her? Has she come back?” Finn’s voice trembled.

  Father Ben paused, his brows knitting with gentle concern. “Finn, my boy… I’ve told you already. If she returns, I will come to you at once. But there has been no sign.” He rested a hand on Finn’s shoulder. “Why are you so troubled?”

  But Finn could not explain—not yet. Not the dreams. Not the emblem. Not the feeling that something was calling to him.

  He only bowed and hurried away again.

  All day he searched.

  He went to the old bridge where Alice used to sit.

  He went to the market and asked the vendors—

  “Have you seen an older lady, gray hair, quiet eyes, always polite?”

  They shook their heads, some kindly, some impatiently. No one knew her. No one remembered her. It was as if she had never existed.

  As the days passed, Finn began making mistakes. At his family’s eatery, he served the wrong orders, forgot ingredients, spilled broth, broke dishes. His father, usually patient, watched him quietly and said nothing—but worry built behind his eyes.

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  When Finn’s birthday arrived, the house was warm and full. Aunt Nins came early, bringing a small cake topped with chocolate shavings. The table was bright with the smell of celebration—dried noodles fried with pork, shrimp, cabbage, carrots, broccoli, seasoned just right.

  His mother gave him a baseball cap, smiling softly.

  His father gave him a pen, polished and silver.

  Maxi, grinning proudly, gave him a chess book, saying, “So next time, you can’t say I won by luck.”

  Everyone laughed, and for a moment, Finn tried to smile with them.

  But the heaviness did not leave his eyes.

  When Aunt Nins finished eating, she excused herself early with a gentle wave. The house quieted. The celebration dishes sat half-eaten. The candlelight flickered like trembling breaths.

  Finn stared at his plate. His father watched him closely.

  “Finn,” his father said softly. “Something is troubling you.”

  Finn tried to shake his head, but the tightening in his chest broke him open. Slowly, haltingly, he spoke. He told them about the dreams—the kingdoms, the children in green and gold, the castle of wood, the tree emblem, and the world crumbling into ash. He told them about Alice, watching him in the dark. And he showed them the ring.

  The moment the ring touched the table, the room felt colder.

  His father’s eyes widened—not in surprise, but in recognition.

  It lasted only a breath, but Finn saw it.

  His father swallowed hard and composed himself before speaking softly, “That ring… it is old. Very old.”

  He did not look at Finn.

  He looked at Finn’s mother.

  She was already looking back.

  And in that shared glance was fear.

  Not confusion.

  Not disbelief.

  Fear.

  Finn felt the world shift beneath him.

  Something was beginning.

  Something his parents had hoped would never come.