You wake to the sound of rain ticking against a narrow attic window, each drop silvering the dust in the air. The room smells of old paper, cedar, and something faintly metallic, as if a secret has been kept here too long. On the floor beside your cot sits a brass key you do not remember placing there, warm as though it has just been held. Beneath the key, a sealed envelope bears only one word in careful ink: test.

Outside the window, the town glows in blurred orange lamps, but the attic itself feels suspended between moments, waiting for you to decide what it becomes. A loose floorboard creaks under a draft, revealing a thread of cold air rising from somewhere below. Your hands tremble as you look from the key to the envelope to the dark gap in the boards, sensing that whatever comes next will change the shape of your evening, and perhaps much more.