"Dears! Come here, please! There's something for you to see," croaked Mother from the drawing room. We replied by scurrying from our rooms upstairs to see her in her rocking chair. "Well, my dears, it is now time, since both of you are of age, to receive this letter from my mother before she succumbs to her ill grave." She proceeded to relinquish the parchment to Earkin's tattered, gloved hands. I quickly skimmed over it and looked blankly at the dying fire. Our mother was approaching the end of her golden years. Her illness grew feverishly over her soulless body since the passing of most of our family to a disease that only Earkin and I survived. "Inyana, I must retire to my room, but here is the parchment." said my dear twin. I nodded, grabbed the hairbrush, and brushed her thinning hair one last time before retiring to my dormitory. Reaching my apartment, I contemplated what was written on the memorandum. In the time that shortly followed, my kinfolk and I left Brewphens Manor for years to come.
Thirty years later, when my son Earkin whom I named after my brother after he fell ill from the disease of our family found the little piece of parchment, he brought it to me asking me if the Manor still belonged to my family, I smiled and announced that indeed the Brephens Manor still belonged to my family line in Thalas woods. My nineteen-year-old son and I headed over to Brewphens, the family home. I sat down and drew what our home used to look like, so we could renovate it. This was a job I was not accustomed to doing. After what seemed like a few months of cleaning and redesigning the main floor, we ventured to the second floor. When I was a kid, this floor was where our bedrooms were, but since... I don't know what happened to them.
Earkin went up the stairs in a hurry and then called to me. I figured he got stuck or something of the sort, but when I arrived, it was as if someone had cleaned already. There's not a speck of dust in sight. My son was at the end of the corridor, picking at something with his nails. As I strolled passively towards him, I noticed a lock that someone must have placed upon the doors leading to the stairwell to the third floor. The completely black steek with gold outlines was placed perfectly upon the iron handles. "What is it? Will it not open?" I asked cautiously.
"It will not open, Mother. If we take out the handles, then the door is still locked. There are bolts on the other side that I can hear. Were you ever allowed up to the third floor? Was anyone?" I thought about myself as a child, then as what modern people call a "teenager" and "young adult". All I could ever remember was being in our rooms on the second floor and thinking that the doors were only decoration. Not even my Mother or Father when they were around, would go to those doors. "No, no one ever went there. How peculiar and queer that they are locked."
He fiddled aimlessly with the lock before looking through all the writing supply drawers in the vicinity. After scrounging until two chimes of the grandfather clock, we still hadn't found any key. During the midday meal, I announced that I was going to go shopping and return. I left with my velvet dress on and my hair was done up in a braid with a maroon ribbon and necklace. I chose my most humble of shoes and set off for the walk to the various shops. I picked up the groceries and a few special tools my son might need to pick open the lock. I got him a nice hook that dentists use on our teeth and all kinds of different pieces of thin strips of metal. At four chimes, I found myself back in the gallery of dormitories, I found my son scrounging around still, like a festering rat. I placed the metals on the entry tables and waited till he found them. "Thank you, Mother! It's very appreciated!" I heard him call out a few minutes later. I smiled. This may be of use to him.
At six chimes, he came back down to the drawing room where I was crocheting. He seemed puzzled. He continued to explain that he couldn't open the lock. It was driving him insane, so I passed him a drinking glass trimmed by a gold leaf filled with a clear liquid. Once he had a few sips he decided it was time to take a break and prepare a fire. I arose from my chair and went to the kitchen where I found some things to cook for dinner. I prepared a roast chicken with some cream of spinach, and roasted potatoes followed by a two-layered chocolate cake.
As my son was slicing up the chicken, he stopped abruptly. I stared blankly at the chicken and then at his face. He moved the knife again and hit something hard and metallic sounding. After a few long minutes of tearing apart the chicken, he found a bronze and gold key. He brought the key to the door and tried it. A few instances later, there was a huge clicking sound and the sound of a large movement. We tried pushing the door, but it still wouldn't budge.
The next day, when Earkin was sleeping, I decided to clean the lock (inside the lock too, because there might be mold or whatnot). When he woke up, he charged to the door with the lock and tried it once more. There was a light click, and the large, heavy metal doors opened onto a huge carpeted staircase, which led to the next floor. This is a joy for our small family.
