The Algebra Problem

Maya sat cross-legged on the creaky wooden floor, her pencil tapping a sharp, impatient beat against the page. The numbers and letters on her homework swam together, like they were part of some cruel secret code. Her frown deepened until her cheeks ached.

“Who even invented this?” she muttered, shoving the paper away as if it had personally insulted her.

Felix, sprawled in the beanbag across from her, opened his mouth — probably ready to launch into one of his half-remembered fact sprees — when a faint light brushed the corner of her vision.

They both froze.

On the floor between them, the puzzle box gave a slow, golden flicker, as if it had been holding its breath until now.

“Felix,” Maya whispered.

“I see it.” His voice was low but charged, like the air before a storm.

Her frustration slipped away, replaced by a prickling curiosity.

“What if the answer’s in there?” she said.

He grinned — the kind of grin that meant trouble and adventure. Together, they reached for the box.

The moment the lid shifted, light burst upward, warm and blinding. The treehouse blurred, the air spun, and the wooden walls melted into a swirl of color and motion.

And then, just like that, they were gone.