Chapter 4: The Glowing Crack in the Old Model

The old attic still smelled of pine wood and damp paper, where memories slumbered quietly within dusty boxes. I gently pushed open the attic door, letting in narrow bands of afternoon light that sliced through the tiny window.

Today, I couldn’t sit still. After last night’s bizarre dream and the unusual look in my son’s eyes this morning, something compelled me to reopen the wooden chest left behind by my father—Hoàng Long’s grandfather—before he passed away.

The chest lay hidden behind an old bookshelf, the iron lock rusted shut. It took me a while, fumbling around, before finding the tiny key hidden inside an old cigarette box. With a soft click, the lid popped open.

Inside lay a handful of black-and-white photographs, a few notebooks filled with hastily scribbled handwriting, and a cube-shaped object wrapped carefully in a thick, dark brown cloth.

I unfolded the cloth.

A cold metallic block—heavy, solid, and reassuring.

It resembled an astronomical model, intricately constructed with delicate rotating rings encircling a foggy core. Yet it wasn’t like any model I’d ever seen. The rings were engraved with strange symbols, neither Latin nor Chinese, nor resembling ancient Greek.

As I rotated one of the rings experimentally, a faint mechanical click echoed—like an ancient mechanism slowly awakening. A small section on its outer surface shifted, revealing a narrow crack emitting a faint, misty blue glow.

I shivered involuntarily.

The glow didn’t shine steadily—it rippled, as if something within was moving, threads of faint lightning dancing chaotically inside the mist.

I reached out carefully, lightly brushing my fingers along the edge of the crack. A slight tingle ran up my spine, and suddenly my head felt heavy, as if someone had just pushed me into a flood of memories that weren’t mine.

In that fleeting moment, I saw… a sky-blue planet, encircled by enormous pillars of light swirling upward like vertical tornadoes. And at the planet’s center hung a massive spiral-shaped gateway—not anchored to a wall or the ground, but suspended midair.

Then everything vanished.

I stepped back, breathing heavily.

The metallic model lay motionless atop the cloth, the glowing crack gradually dimming and then closing completely.

I grabbed one of my father’s notebooks and flipped through the first few pages. They were filled with symbols and frantic notes about “sliding reality portals,” “layers of luminous density,” and a repeated phrase:

"The Window isn't a passageway—it's a junction."
"When the crack opens for the second time, time itself becomes nonlinear."
"The boy is the key, but only the opener can truly see."

I froze. “The boy”? Could that be Hoàng Long?

I placed everything back inside the chest but kept the metallic model with me. Every instinct screamed that this wasn’t just a souvenir. Was it a key? A door? Or perhaps… a warning?

Underneath the chest, a small scrap of paper fell out. In my father’s shaky handwriting, it said simply:

"When the boy begins to see what no one else can—do not fear. Go with him."

I sat dazedly in the attic as darkness slowly fell. Outside, gray clouds moved in like a curtain being lowered.

Perhaps everything… was just beginning.