Of all the private investigators, the grieving widow chose me.

I use “grieving” loosely, because Gloria wore a pink dress when she hired me to solve her husband’s murder. The cops already have a suspect—her. Gloria’s prints were on the bottle of poison-laced pills he downed, and police knew about her flings. But she said she was framed.

Days later, Gloria answered my knock on her door. A younger man was with her.

“I found the killer,” I announced. “At the county clerk’s, I obtained a recent forgery of your husband’s will. It leaves everything to…him.”

The younger man bolted.

She gave him her smile. And her youth. And her joy. He feasted on it all, then demanded more. But she was spent. Used up. Exhausted. Still he supped on her life-force, until, with her dying breath, she cast him out. Weakly she stumbled away, her faint heart-beat barely a flutter. But outside his shadow was warmth. And smiles. And youth. And joy. The frost around her heart was hard and cold. But slowly it melted away. Each kind word. Each soft gaze. Each peel of laughter. Until she grew a new smile. Different, sometimes sad, but just as beautiful.

They cracked it open with a crowbar because the lock had rusted to glue, and the hinges moaned like they remembered. The crowd pressed in —a sweating, shifting wall of small-town pride—and the mayor, wiping his brow with a pocket square, declared it historic, though no one could remember what year it’d been buried or by whom.

The lid swung back. Silence knotted itself tight, heavy, as if the air had turned thick with waiting. Someone coughed. And then it hit—a smell like burnt hair and rotten lamb and old metal, flooding out in waves, rippling nausea through the crowd. Someone gagged. A child cried. The air recoiled.

Inside, the contents glistened wet and wrong. Not artifacts. Not memories. Things that squirmed, that pulsed faintly, that shivered like they were waking up. Something with too many legs and no face scuttled over the lip and dropped to the ground with a sound like meat slapping stone.

The mayor tried to speak, but his mouth foamed instead, his words guttural and alien, a voice that wasn’t his clawing out from somewhere deeper.

And then the lid slammed itself shut.

The ground beneath it cracked open, and the world began to tilt.

I was burning the midnight oil in my office, working a case that was so cold it would’ve given a lesser gumshoe frostbite. No lights. I like it dark as ink because it helps me think.

I go back to square one. “Kid” Hooper knocks over a bank twenty-two years ago. They find his body a year later, but no trace of the fifty-two grand he stole. Now his widow hires me to find the loot (she says she’ll give me a taste of the game) or prove her husband innocent.

I hear footsteps nearby. I shine my flashlight at the door and see a note on the floor. It says, “Time Capsule, Nine tomorrow morning. Ford High School garden.” The other side of the note says, “Be there. Could be worth fifty G’s.”

Tomorrow arrives. “The class of 1934 left instructions to open this time capsule now, in 1956,” a school principal tells a couple hundred students and a dozen adults, including me.

He opens the lid of a dirty metal container and the stench overwhelms. The crowd recoils, the principal drops the box, and I dive and get my mitts on it. But another hand is on mine.

Ramaiyya's P.O.V.

I don't know why I am going with these people, but I believe them to be linked with the box which shocked me to my core and I nearly lost my voice. Yes I started to stammer from the moment I opened that box. No one knows the truth except me, and I can not tell them without learning it completely. Maybe the lake will help me learn the truth completely and I could save them. My amma and pati. They were, and still are tied in that small box, but how in such a tiny box and I am not able to release them. They are bound by some dangerous dark magic, which doesn't allow me to touch the thread or rope on them. They are shrunk into the size of a small toy, but they can talk, that how I learnt who they were. They spoke to me, but they don't know that I am Ramaiyya, their son/grandson. And I have taken a oath to tell them this truth only after relasing them. Maybe till then I complete my reading and reciting practice so that I could speak to them freely after releasing them. Hail trees.

“I have wondered if thee will marry,” his father said.

Elnathan looked up from his rabbit stew.

“It is a part of life,” Samuel Holm said, and he ate another bite.

They had built this house together. They had mortared the stones for the foundation, hewn the floor joists, notched the logs they stacked and chinked with rocks and straw and clay. They shared one bed. Through all of it, they had never spoken of marriage, love, or any future beyond tasks to perform. They had left their first farm five years ago, and in that time, Elnathan had heard six directives from his father for every word of conversation.

He studied the older man in the fading dusk, debating whether his father meant to test him. “The Friend says men should live in the Spirit, not in the flesh,” Elnathan said.

Samuel Holm lifted his bowl to his lips. Elnathan noticed his father’s hands trembling again, as they had since his illness the preceding year; Samuel Holm had spent less time carving or whittling since. He wiped his arm across his graying beard to erase the tell-tale drops of broth. He folded his hands on the table and watched them, as though guarding their stillness. “Thee is nineteen. If thee did not shave it, thy beard would be full by this time.”

“Men shave their beards. Thee is the only man I see to wear one.”

“Thee would think of little else beside marriage, if thee lived in any other place,” Samuel Holm continued. He lifted his eyes. “There are things important to a young man.”

Elnathan laughed. “Thee think me a young boy indeed, if thee think to explain such things.”

Samuel Holm returned his eyes to his hands. One of their cows lowed nearby.

“Thee was not so old when my mother left time,” Elnathan said, “and thee never thought to remarry.”

“That I did not discuss the matter with my son does not mean I did not of think it.”

Elnathan watched his father, awaiting further words, some sign. Samuel Holm sat quietly with hands folded on the table he had made.

(Cross posting this from a challenge I created and entered yesterday)

The dim, smoky glow of the tavern lanterns cast wavering shadows against the wooden walls. The oaken surfaces stained from years of spilt ale and drawn blood from drunken brawls.

The warm, yeasty scent of beer mingled with the tang of sweat and the faint note of rusty blades and daggers. Patrons spoke in hushed voices, keeping one eye on their drinks and if they were lucky enough to have a second, on whoever staggered in through the battered oak door.

I sat at my usual corner, back to the wall, nursing a tankard of bitter soured ale and shuffling a deck of Gwent cards that had seen better days. Each frayed at the edges and crease marks running their surfaces.

My reputation unfortunately preceded me, a trickster with nimble fingers and the sharpness of a knife hidden in the smile. Dagnar is the name and separating patrons from their coin the game.

A ripple of unease whispered through the room as the door creaked open on its half broken hinges. The cold forced itself in on a gust of frigid wind like a wicked omen. A precursor of a bad night on the dark horizon. He walked in, tall and pale, dressed in all black and silver, with the kind of presence that sucked the air from the lungs leaving one speechless. Scars crisscrossed his face, each line a history of violence. And surely a horrid tale that went hand in hand with its presence.

His eyes, those damned eyes, glowed like embers from the depths of a dying fire. A fire that didn’t need much prodding to become adequately stoked. I didn't need a name to know who this man was. A Witcher.

The chatter died down as he strode past tables of farmers and soldiers, boots thudding with the cadence of a death march. He halted by the hearth, the flicker of flames licking at his silhouette, and let his gaze sweep the room like the precision surgeon’s blade. For a moment, I held my breath, fingers tightening on the edge of my cards.

“I’m looking for someone,” he said, his voice low and gravelly, the kind of tone that could cleave stone. I caught the bartender’s eyes shifting nervously, but no one answered.

The Witcher sighed, more weary than frustrated, and turned to face me, as if he had known where I was the whole time.

“You there,” he said. My grin was automatic, masking the twist of anxiety and fear burbling in my gut. I felt the sudden rush telling me to run for the outhouse. “Aye, Witcher. What brings you to our humble corner of Novigrad?” I raised my tankard in a mocking toast.

“Yennifer. I’m told she was seen passing through,” he said, eyes narrowing. “Have you heard of her whereabouts?”

“Ah, the sorceress,” I drawled, pretending to think while I shuffled the deck. The cards slapping against the table buying me time to phrase my thoughts. “Perhaps we could make this interesting? A simple game of Gwent. I win, you share a drink, a tale, and toss me a copper. You win, and I’ll tell you what I know.” Another ploy to buy me time.

The room collectively exhaled, tension slipping from their postures and they resumed their duties and conversation. The Witcher’s lip twitched, half amusement, half disdain.

“Fine,” he said in his voice that sounded like raking stones. He pulled up a chair and sat across from me. He dropped a pouch on the table; the heavy clink of coin echoed. “Deal.”

I set the cards, fingers moving deftly, sliding in a marked one just so. A dangerous move on my part, but my hope that his hands weren’t as well versed in cards as they were with his weapons. A few rounds passed in tense silence. Outside, the wind howled like a starving wolf. Inside, soldiers whispered about Nilfgaard’s relentless push north, about the battered Redanian defenses and whispers of a rebellion brewing in Skellige. The war may be drawing to a close. Gods be praised. But here at our table, there was only the game, and the Witcher’s unsettling gaze catching every flinch, every tell.

“You’re sweating,” he noted, laying down a biting frost card that turned the tide.

“Just the heat,” I replied smoothly. But my stomach churned as I watched my carefully laid strategy fall apart. My siege troops no longer holding their position on the table they once had. I played the Mysterious Elf card and a knowing smile crossed my face.

He stared in disappointment at the layout of cards upon the table, then seeing his defeat pushed the cards into a pile for reshuffling. “Strange,” The pale Witcher said, glancing at my deck. His golden eyes met mine with a knowing glint. “Your cards … they’re heavier than they should be.”

I feigned a chuckle, a sound as thin as parchment and attempted to change the course of conversation. “You never said your name, your accent? Is it Rivian?” I tried to snatch the cards back, but his hand shot out, iron-hard fingers closing around my wrist.

“Cheaters don’t deserve mercy,” he growled.

Time slowed to a heartbeat, then splintered into chaos. I reached for the knife at my belt, but he was faster. His chair clattered to the floor as he drew his steel sword in a flash of silver. The blade caught the firelight as it swung toward me; I stumbled back, drawing my knife too late.

A roar erupted as patrons scrambled for the exits, tables overturned and tankards spilled, beer slicking the floor. He advanced upon me, a dangerous gleam in his eyes. I lunged, aiming for the gap beneath his ribs, but he sidestepped with the grace of predator on the hunt.

“Igni,” he intoned, and flames roared to life from his outstretched hand. I cried out, throwing up an arm to shield my face. The heat seared, blistering skin in an instant.

“Damn you to the nine Hells!” I spat, desperation clawing at my throat. I swung wildly, the blade catching nothing but air. His foot slammed into my chest, sending me sprawling into an upturned table. Pain shot up my spine as I crashed to the ground, the room spinning.

“You know where she is,” he said, sword tip pressing against my throat, cold as a winter's kiss. I gasped for air, vision spotting.

“Sod off,” I managed, defiance trembling in my voice.

A second of silence, then the blade sank in, swift and merciless. My world shrank to a pinpoint of pain before slipping into blackness. Over the din, I heard him mutter, half to himself, “I’ll find you, Yen.”

The last thing I saw as my eyes began to lose their focus was the Witcher’s unyielding expression as he pulled his sword free.

As the ruling Coven of the 100th fold, we were destined for greatness. Rest assured, we took great care to honor humanity. We only turned them into giant apples to be eaten. Their sweet crunches were music to our ears.

As one could imagine, when we located the capsule from the depths of the Hellfire Lake with the absolutely voluntary help of one hundred slaves, we had high expectations. As the hexes were carefully disarmed, we dreamed of the dark magic unlocked before our eyes.

The smoke knocked me out the minute it opened, and when I woke up, I suddenly found out that the sun, which was covered by our darkness spells, actually came out for once. Miraculously, the pitiful humans passing by were not slaving away anymore to our bidding but actually thriving and—dare I say it—laughing at me! It was intolerable. According to the juicy taste of his last words, the greatest spell of history saved in that time capsule was a disastrous spell that inverted everything except for me.

Why would our ancestors make such a time bomb and rid us of the joy of human apples? I can’t tell. Maybe a certain snake might know…

If you’ve just begun dating that special someone and you’d like to see how your honey reacts under extreme pressure, invite her or him to an intimate dinner. At your house. Seated at a small table with just you and your parents. And, in this case, my seven brothers.

Besides, I felt it was only right to invite Karen to dinner at my family's small wood house, because I’d already partaken at her family’s comfortable, brick home. And the dinner there was a feast. Her mother made roast beef with gravy, and the gravy had its own special porcelain dispenser! Her mother also served white and green vegetables that I had never heard of, and they were bathed in a creamy cheese sauce. And their beautiful wooden dining table was covered in a lace tablecloth, and you would not believe the elbow room! There was just Karen, her parents, and her younger brother. And no one had to sit on a piano bench!

I knew I was out of my element. When her father led the mealtime prayer, I reached for my forehead to make the sign of the cross, but stopped when everyone’s hands stayed still. They closed their eyes, so I closed mine ... part way, because I had to see when it was time to reopen them. And when the odd words came from their lips, I stayed silent.

Come Lord Jesus, be our guest and let thy gifts to us be blessed. Amen.

At the conclusion of the prayer, someone stuck a big bowl of mashed potatoes in front of me. I soon learned the art of passing food around the table at dinnertime. These German Lutherans had some curious mealtime customs. But their food was great, and they were good company and there was laughter. Not once did religion intrude upon the table talk, even though Karen’s folks knew about my religion, and her father was an elder in their Lutheran church.

Several weeks later, it was Karen’s turn to go on display at my Catholic house. If she was nervous, she didn’t show it. Karen smiled and was the picture of composure as she and all 10 members of my family crowded around the dining room table. She got to sit in a real chair, because she was a guest. (One of my younger brothers and our mother sat on the piano bench, because they were both left-handed.)

There were no napkins at our table, but Karen wasn’t fazed. Then, all but she made the sign of the cross, and all but she launched into a prayer:

“Bless us O Lord and these thy gifts, which we are about to receive from thy bounty through Christ Our Lord, Amen.” (However, we sped through our prayer. It sounded more like one continuous word.)

Still, she was composed. But her true test came the instant we said “amen,” because that was the signal for my parents to stand up and dish out the food. Their arms moved furiously around the table. Dad dolloped the mashed potatoes with a big spoon as if he was on a precision bombing mission, each scoop hitting a plate with a hearty thwack. Mom moved around with the fried chicken, dropping her missiles by hand. They worked as a team; my mother finished her run first, so she moved onto spooning up the canned corn.

My father took on the final pre-dinner mission. He grabbed the salt shaker with his big fist and strafed the table, making a pass over each plate. But Karen took a stand: As the salt began to rain down in front of her, she reflexively put her hands over her food, and the crystals bounced off. None of us had ever seen such an expert defensive move at the dinner table. My brothers were in awe. But this Catholic family harbored one nagging question: Why didn’t Lutherans like salt?

Just like at Karen’s house, religion did not intrude at the dinner table. People were too busy eating, laughing, joking, and salting.

Moments after being placed on my chest, my son scrunched his blue-tinged face, whimpered and began to cry in earnest.

Leaning over us, my husband spoke with him as he had spoken to my belly for nine months. He stopped crying and appeared to listen.

"He knows your voice," I whispered, smiling, eyes full.

"By the way," Dr. Blunt said, "your husband and your mom didn't know how to tell you, but your father died two days ago."

And thus was my full heart broken, bleeding sorrow that still seeps out now and again, even as it burst with joy.