The Box Has Other Plans

Maya was flat on her stomach, chin propped on both fists, completely lost in her book. Unicorns galloped across the page. Felix watched her from his beanbag with the expression of someone trying very hard not to say something.

He lasted about four seconds.

"You don't actually think those were real, do you?"

Maya didn't look up. "I think lots of things were real that we can't prove anymore."

"Unicorns," Felix said flatly. "You think unicorns were real."

"I think history is full of surprises." She turned a page. "Maybe there was something — a rhino seen from far away, a story passed down wrong. You don't know."

"I know there's zero scientific evidence —"

"There's zero scientific evidence of lots of things that still happened." Maya finally looked up, eyes bright. "Just because

you

can't imagine it doesn't mean —"

The puzzle box glowed.

It sat in the corner like it always did, quiet and patient — until it wasn't. The familiar amber light seeped through the cracks in the lid, warming the whole treehouse.

Felix and Maya went silent.

Sketch lifted his head from the rug, regarded the glowing box for a moment, then stood, stretched elaborately — as if he had all the time in the world — and padded over to wind himself around Maya's legs. She scooped him up without thinking, tucking him against her chest.

They crossed the floor and knelt beside the box. Maya's free hand found the lid. Felix put his over hers.

"For the record," he said, "I still don't believe in unicorns."

"For the record," Maya replied, "you're about to time travel."

They lifted the lid together, and the light took them.