For a moment, I just stood there, trying to adjust.
Then I remembered the candles under my son’s bed.
I moved slowly through the hallway, guided only by memory and the faint outline of furniture I had walked past a thousand times before. The house felt different in the dark—larger, quieter, unfamiliar in a way that made even the smallest sound feel amplified. Every step echoed slightly too long, as if the walls were listening.
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When I reached his room, I knelt down carefully beside the bed. The air down there was still and slightly dusty, the kind of forgotten space where things accumulate over time—lost socks, broken toys, random objects that children insist are “important” even when they can no longer explain why.
I reached my hand under the bed, expecting candles.
Instead, my fingers brushed against something cold.
Hard plastic.
I pulled it out slowly.
At first, I couldn’t process what I was seeing.
It was a strange blue object—uneven, angular, and unsettlingly unfamiliar. It didn’t resemble anything I could immediately categorize. Not a toy in any obvious sense. Not a household tool. Not something that belonged in a child’s bedroom, or really anywhere in a normal home.
Its shape was irregular, almost aggressive in design—jagged curves, sharp-looking protrusions, and strange spikes that caught the faint light of my phone in a way that made it look almost alive. The blue color was deep and dull, but somehow intensified by the darkness around it, as if it absorbed attention rather than reflected it.
I turned it slowly in my hands.
Nothing made sense.
No markings. No brand. No instructions. No obvious point of function. Just an object that looked like it should dosomething, but refused to explain what that something was.
For a few seconds, my mind did what the mind always does in the absence of information—it started inventing possibilities.
A piece of broken electronic equipment?
Some kind of experimental device?
