The sun sat high above the Pothead residence, painting the three-story house in a wash of golden heat. The neighborhood stretched around it in rows of ordinary homes, yet this one stood out, not because of its architecture, but because of what hummed, rattled, and banged inside.
At the back of the house, behind a weathered wooden fence lined with vines, a garden thrived. The garden was no neat and orderly thing; it was lush, wild, and humming with life as only a tropical corner of the world could be. Thick grass shimmered under the glare of the afternoon sun. Bushes, swollen with emerald leaves, rustled gently in the warm air. Bright flowers in splashes of scarlet and orange leaned lazily over one another. And near the corner, beneath a canopy of green, stood a small Golden Penda plant. Its pale yellow blossoms glowed faintly in the light, like bursts of sunshine caught in clusters.
An old log, worn smooth from years of weather, had been dragged into the yard long ago and turned into a makeshift bench. Here sat young Harry Pothead, his small frame perched comfortably, his legs swinging just above the ground. His black hair stuck out in untidy tufts, and his simple blue shirt clung lightly to his skin in the humid air. His brown eyes darted over every detail of the garden, as if committing it all to memory. A lizard scuttled across the log and disappeared into the grass. Bees buzzed from flower to flower. Ants traced invisible highways at his feet. Harry's lips curled into a smile.
From inside the house, a melody floated through the open window. His mother, Lily Pothead, was in the kitchen, humming as she stirred pots and clattered pans. The scent of garlic and herbs drifted faintly outward, carried by the breeze. There was warmth and steadiness in the way she hummed, a rhythm Harry had grown used to hearing every day.
But overlaying this peaceful music came a different sound altogether. From the third floor, through an open window, echoed a racket that seemed to belong to another world. Metallic clangs, the hiss of venting steam, and the occasional sharp bang! split the tropical stillness. His father, James Pothead, was hard at work on one of his strange contraptions again.
Harry tilted his chin upward, squinting at the third floor. Though he couldn't see much from his place in the garden, the boy's curiosity flared with each sharp sound. His father's "science machine," as James called it, was something Harry only glimpsed once or twice before being shooed away with a wave of the hand. Whatever his father was building, Harry longed to know more. Every crash and clatter was a siren call.
The afternoon air shifted suddenly. A heavy gust of wind barreled through the garden, whipping the bushes into a frenzy and rattling the leaves of the Golden Penda. Harry braced himself as his hair whipped across his forehead, stinging his eyes. The flowers bent low as if bowing under an invisible weight, and the old log creaked under the force of the gust.
The open third-floor window funneled the wind inside. A faint cry followed—his father's unmistakable voice raised in protest. The wind carried specks of pollen, golden flecks torn loose from the blossoms. Dust swirled up from the dry corners of the garden and spiraled high into the air. The particles glittered for a heartbeat in the sunlight before vanishing into the upper window.
Moments later came a loud sneeze, echoing through the neighborhood like a cannon shot.
"Confounded wind!" James's voice barked out, muffled but sharp. "Always at the worst time!" A metallic clang followed, then another sneeze, accompanied by a string of muttered complaints.
Harry laughed softly, though he kept his gaze locked on that window, his heart thrumming with curiosity. What on earth could his father be making up there that a little dust could ruin?
The garden quieted again as the gust passed, but the air felt different now—charged, unsettled, as though something invisible had shifted.