3.1 Cinnamon and Cellar Doors

John wrestled with puzzles in his sleep, twisting until dawn—a habit V loathed. This morning, he was alone, sprawled across a sagging twin bed in the farmhouse attic. A sharp gasp woke him, breath catching as if his mind had rebooted. Eyes shut, he felt warm air drift through an open window, tinged with cinnamon from downstairs. Someone’s up before me? Impossible.

He fumbled for his phone—buried under a sock—squinting at 9:30. He bolted up, smacking his head on the sloped ceiling. This room’s for kids. The space smelled of old summers—musty shawls, 1930s charm—antique photos of family glaring from the walls. A holiday haven from his youth, comforting yet odd.


Shirt half-on, he stumbled past an unused bedroom—antique vanity gleaming with perfume bottles—into a narrow hall. Steep, quirky stairs creaked as he hit the family room: rugs on hardwood, comic cupboards, a ‘70s TV with rabbit ears. Two rocking chairs sat empty, whispering of kin. The dining room followed—dark furniture, old newspapers, a lace table with blueberries and ham. In the tiny kitchen, Cecelia flipped French toast by a percolator, coffee and cinnamon thick in the air.


“How ya doin’, sis? Why not wake me?” John rubbed his neck.

“Bro, you needed sleep. Hungry?” She smirked.

“Yeah, but I’ve gotta move.” He eyed the food pile by his chair.

“Go play,” she teased, flipping a slice.

He scarfed it down—blueberries, ham, all of it—mind clearing. “Great, sis!” he yelled over the sizzle.

“More?”

“Nah, adventure time.” He clicked his tongue twice. Waffles bounded in, paws thumping. “Ready, girl?”

“Woof!”

Late morning? Crap. He unlatched the cellar doors, secrets humming below.

3.2 The Mark in the Stone

The doors groaned as John yanked them open, damp air rushing up. His flashlight cut the gloom, Waffles darting down the stairs. “Easy, girl,” he muttered. The trunk sat open, where the 184 journals had laid spilling with mysteries, but the stone wall behind—smooth, too perfect—drew him now.

He sank onto a milk crate, cold seeping in. “What am I missing, Waffles?” She sniffed the trunk, tail wagging. Journals haunted him—ships, maps, that cross within a circle. Grandfather’s words looped: “When you’re ready, you’ll open it without cutting.” The trunk was done, but the puzzle lingered. “Beneath the stone, the truth waits,” a sketch had said. Could it possibly be this stone?


Pacing, boots scuffed dirt. The beam danced over the wall—gray, unyielding. “Why here?” Waffles whined, pawing the base. He crouched, hand on stone. Cold. Solid. He kicked it—hard. A deep thud echoed. “Hollow?” He tapped, ear to the wall—a faint hum answered. Something’s there.

The beam swept slower. Waffles growled, staring above the trunk. John froze. A faint cross within a circle, quarter-sized, etched into the grain—subtle, meant for a Castaway’s eyes. “Holy crap, Waffles,” he whispered, adrenaline spiking. He pressed the mark—no give. Shoving the trunk aside, he knocked around it. Hollow echoes teased. It’s here. “How do we get in?” He clawed the edges—no cracks.

Waffles barked, nose on the mark. A scrape whispered from the wall—stone shifting, then still. John stumbled back, beam trembling. “What’s back there?” The air thickened, electric. He had to know.

3.3 The Vault of Legends

Cecelia’s steps creaked down, keys jangling. “Bro, what’s Waffles on about?” John spun, beam jittering. “Sis, here.” He pointed to the mark, Waffles nosing it. “It’s hollow—I heard it.”

Her eyes lit up, skepticism gone. “No way. My idea to push you paid off?” She rolled her eyes, grinning. “Typical.” John snorted, but her buzz infectious, they huddled by the mark. “Grandpa said ‘the truth waits,’” she mused. “This it?”

“Wait,” she squinted. “He’d ramble about ‘pressure reveals’—that well he’d rig to pop open.” John’s mind clicked. Leverage. “Grab that pry bar, sis.” He fished out quarters from his pocket—gas station change. “Physics: fulcrum and force.” He wedged the bar into a crack near the mark, stacked coins beneath, and tilted it. “If it’s a door, it’s hinged. Right pressure…”


Nothing. “Come on,” he growled, sweating. “Left first, then down,” Cecelia urged. He slid it—grind, click. The wall trembled. He pressed harder, coins crunching—CRACK—the slab swung in. A whoosh of stale air blasted out, dust swirling.

John aimed his phone light through. Darkness, then—holy hell—rows of firearms glinted: flintlocks, muskets, rifles; blades beside them—swords, daggers, hundreds strong, racked in a cavern. “Sis…” he croaked. Cecelia gaped, silent.


He squeezed in, boots crunching, air heavy with iron. Weapons gleamed—centuries old, mostly untouched. But a few rifles near the door shone newer, less dusty. “Grandpa’s additions?” he muttered, awed. “James Castaway’s core hoard… and he built on it.”


Cecelia slipped in, lifting a note from under a dagger. Her voice shook:
“To the Castaways—This is yours. Preserve, share, expand, or sell what’s needed to guard the rest. James Castaway foresaw new ways to unlock these legends. The treasure’s the stories—share them. Signed, each generation—mine began 1937, with a few guns added over time. John, you’re next.”
“Grandfather,” she whispered. “He worked it ‘til the end.”

John’s legs wobbled. “He knew I’d come.” The legacy—journals, blades, guns—crashed over him. His light swept the vault, and he breathed, “The legends live.”