As the others headed for lunch, Martin Hale fell a little behind the group, drawn inexplicably to the dark, narrow alley that ran between the main street and a deserted side road.
The fog was slowly covering the asphalt, the lights were faintly reflected on the walls, and the air seemed somehow heavier, denser.
Martin noticed something on the ground: an old, worn book, lying dusty on an abandoned crate. Its spine was cracked, the pages yellowed with age, and the cover bore delicately embossed symbols that Martin did not understand, but some primal attraction drew it to his hand.
He bent down cautiously, his fingers trembling with excitement and a little fear. Although he was a normal person, he could not explain why he felt this book was important to Ken.
Quickly, almost instinctively, he slipped it into his inside pocket and set off to catch up with Ken and the others.
As he got closer, Norman Babcock immediately spotted the strange object Martin was trying to hide unnoticed. He frowned and stepped closer.
"Hey, Martin… give it to me!" he said, his voice mixed with curiosity and caution. "This… can't be just any thing."
Martin hesitated. The book felt almost warm in his hands, and somehow it felt as if some invisible force was trying to pull him back to it. But finally, after a deep breath, he handed it to Norman.
Norman slowly opened the first page, while Ken's eyes followed his every move, uncertain and curious. The ink flickered faintly on the paper, as if the book were alive. As Norman turned the pages, the pages began to move on their own, almost following Ken's gaze.
And then something happened that changed everything: on the pages of the book, in fine, crumbling ink, Ken's full name appeared, as if the book had been waiting for him:
KENNETH DEVLIN CARSON
Ken's body tensed. His heart pounded in his throat. He couldn't understand how the book could know his full name. The world suddenly stopped around him, all sounds became muffled, all he could hear was his own breathing.
"This... this can't be..." he whispered, his voice shaking with shock and fear.
As Norman continued to turn the pages, the book began to draw strange images and words that brought back memories of Ken. The pages, torn into tiny pieces, moved like a video of his past.
Ken's eyes widened, his heart beat faster: childhood traumas he had repressed his whole life were now surfacing again.
Ken saw his twelve-year-old self, the huge old New York mansion where the most terrifying night of his life had happened. The child Ken had been shocked to find a man hanged. The sight had stirred up a deep sense of fear, confusion, and self-reproach that he had spent his adult life trying to suppress.
Courtney and Norman watched Ken's reaction in shock. Concern and sympathy flashed in
Courtney's eyes, but her usual sarcasm was still there, as if trying to ease the tension of the situation:
"Well… it seems the book doesn't pick and choose who it starts with," she said quietly, glancing at Ken, as if she too had sensed the deep-seated trauma.
Norman stood close to Ken, his hand on the boy's shoulder, trying to reassure him, to signal that they wouldn't leave him alone.
Martin, who was standing a little further away, noticed the serious mood and tried to lighten the tension with a little light humor:
"Well… if this book knows all our secrets, let's hope it doesn't spoil our dinner!" he said, almost dropping the book with a clumsy movement.
Ken smiled faintly for a moment, but the emotional storm raging in his heart had not yet subsided. He knew that the book was more than just an object: a gateway to his past, which he had suppressed all his life, and which now reawakened everything he had wanted to forget.
The book, Martin, Norman, and Courtney's presence created excitement, fear, and anticipation all at once. And Ken felt that this was just the beginning.