Chapter Four – The Second Strike
The damaged panel had already begun to separate.
A narrow seam ran vertically beneath the painting.
The boy placed his hand against it.
His father inhaled sharply.
The mother said nothing.
Meanwhile, the older man took one slow step forward.
“Careful.”
The boy looked over his shoulder.
That word mattered.
Not stop.
Not leave it.
Careful.
He understood permission when he heard it.
So he drew back his arm.
His father’s face tightened.
The mother watched her son with an expression that mixed fear and resolve.
Then the boy struck the wall again.
The impact traveled through the room.
Wood split with a sudden, clean sound.
One narrow panel cracked downward.
Another shifted beside it.
The painting above trembled slightly in its frame.
Dust fell across the floor.
For a heartbeat, nothing else happened.
Then the hidden seam opened.
A dark vertical line appeared where solid wood had seemed to exist for decades.
The boy stepped back.
His father stared.
The mother brought one hand slowly to her mouth.
The older man closed his eyes.
Only for a second.
Yet the boy saw it.
That reaction told him more than words could.
The hidden space behind the wall was not a surprise to the older man.
It was a memory.
