That night, the farmhouse felt colder than usual.
The wind scraped across the windows like claws, and the fire in the hearth crackled low and weak. Mike sat beside it, watching the flames twist and curl, the journal closed on his lap. His thoughts kept circling the same two things: the whisper in the cave, and the look in Jake's eyes when he'd last spoken to him.
If it even was speech.
"Mike…"
He couldn't forget the way Jake had said it—soft and broken, but real.
When the fire dipped low enough to risk waking the others if it died, Mike rose, tucked the journal under his arm, and slipped upstairs.
Jake's room was at the end of the hall, next to the linen closet their mother always forgot to close. The floorboards groaned under his feet, but he'd learned to step just right so they wouldn't squeal. He reached the door and knocked gently before entering, as he always did—even though Jake never answered.
Inside, the room was dark, save for the moonlight spilling through the curtain.
Jake was awake, sitting on his bed, knees drawn to his chest, his face turned toward the window.
"Hey," Mike said softly, closing the door behind him.
Jake didn't move.
Mike sat in the old wooden chair near the bed. "I brought something to show you."
Still no movement. But Mike went on, as he always did.
"I found something out in the forest. Past the ridge. You remember that spot where we built our rock stack? It was there. A cave under an old ash tree."
He opened the journal and held it so Jake could see the sketches. The bow. The device. The strange markings.
Jake's head turned—slowly. His eyes locked on the page.
And for the first time in over a year, Mike saw something change in them. A spark. Recognition. And fear.
Jake's breathing quickened. He reached for the journal with shaking hands, his fingers hovering above the drawing of the device.
Mike held his breath.
Then, Jake thrust his hand forward and swiped across the page, smearing the ink. He slammed both hands down and shook his head violently, eyes wide.
"Jake!" Mike stood, shocked. "What is it? Do you know what it is?"
Jake gripped Mike's arm with trembling fingers and pointed again at the sketch—then at the window. He made a motion like something exploding. Then he pointed at himself, and back at the window. Again and again.
Mike tried to follow. "The device… something bad? Did something happen to you—because of it?"
Jake's expression was panicked now. He grabbed the pencil from Mike's pocket and scratched a crude circle on the back of the journal page. Inside it, he drew a line splitting it in two. Then dots—two on one side, one on the other.
Then he dropped the pencil and curled in on himself, rocking gently, like he used to right after the accident.
Mike stared at the drawing. It meant something. It had to.
He knelt beside Jake. "I'm not going to stop, Jake. I have to know what this thing is. I have to know what it did to you."
Jake didn't respond. His eyes returned to the window, distant again.
But Mike had seen enough.
There was something out there. Something that broke his brother.
And if it could be found, then maybe—just maybe—it could be fixed.