Chapter 1: The Birth Day

            Year 1983, October 14. In the Maywood family's house, the sound of music, chatter, and laughter fills the air. Multi-colored streamers drooped from the ceiling, their vibrant hues muted by the flickering overhead lights. Christian Maywood stood by the snack table, a half-eaten slice of pizza growing cold in his hand, his gaze fixed on the storm outside. He turned sixteen, but the celebratory shouts and the forced smiles of his classmates felt like a performance he no longer wished to attend.

“Come on, Chris! Cake time! ” Liam’s voice boomed over the music, already too loud, too cheerful. Liam, his best friend, always saw the bright side, even when the world offered none.

Christian’s jaw tightened. He didn't move.

Liam clapped a hand on his shoulder, his smile faltering slightly. “What’s with the face, man? It’s your birthday.”

Christian finally met his friend’s eyes. “Just… a lot.” His voice, usually steady, came out a low rumble.

“A lot of presents? A lot of cake? A lot of girls who won’t stop staring at you? ” Liam nudged him with his elbow. “Seriously, talk to me. You’ve been like this all night.”

He shook his head, a tightness in his chest expanding with each forced beat of the bass. “I need air.” He pushed past Liam, ignoring the surprised glances and the lingering scent of sugar and cheap cologne. The back door offered a silent escape.

The moment he stepped outside, the wind tore at his clothes, whipping his hair across his eyes. Weasternia, usually a quiet town, seemed to howl tonight. Clouds, thick and bruised, raced across the sky, obscuring the moon. He pulled his jacket tighter, the cold seeping into his bones, a welcome distraction from the hollow ache inside. He walked along the overgrown path at the edge of their yard, the crunch of dead leaves under his sneakers the only sound apart from the wind’s relentless shriek.

A flicker of movement caught his eye\, a dark shape huddled near the ancient oak that marked the property line. Not an animal. Too angular. He approached\, his steps cautious\, the wind pushing against his back. It was a package\, wrapped in plain brown paper\, tied with a thin\, almost black string. No bow\, no fancy ribbon. Just a simple\, unassuming box. He bent down\, his fingers brushing the rough paper. A small\, elegant tag hung from the string. His name\, in crisp\, unfamiliar script\, stood out against the stark white: *Christian Maywood*.

He picked it up. It carried a surprising weight, not heavy, but substantial. No return address. No sender’s name. A shiver, unrelated to the cold, traced a path down his spine. He tore at the paper, the wind snatching the scraps as they fell. Inside, nestled on a bed of dark velvet, lay a single, rectangular card. Pure black, smooth to the touch, almost obsidian. He flipped it over. The surface remained blank, reflecting the dim light of the distant party. Nothing. Just an empty, black card. His breath hitched. A prickle of unease, sharp and cold, began to spread through him. He wondered who could have left the box for him.

He felt uneasy as if someone were watching him. He looked around, and when he finally thought that no one was there, Liam suddenly appeared. "Boo!" Scaring the hell out of Chris. Liam laughs at Chris's face. "Dude, what's with your face?" Liam said while wiping his tears due to luaghing. Chris said, "Dude, what the hell? That is not funny." He glared at Liam. "Why did you follow me anyway?" Chris said as he started to walk. "I followed you because I was worried, and it's not fun if my best friend is here all alone while others celebrate his birthday." Liam sighed and smiled, running beside Chris as he put his arm on Chris because Chris was a lot taller than him. They talked while walking, laughing as they headed back home.

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