Script:
As dusk's final rays faded completely, the wind stirred again. This time, it wasn't a whisper. It was a breath, like the whole world exhaled at once. It started as a rustle in the distance, faint pause against dirt, a distant bark, a flutter of feathers, the soft clinking of old tags on old collars. The people turned their heads, eyes narrowing toward the far tree line. Then, from the edge of the woods, a golden retriever broke through the brush at full sprint, its tongue lolling, tail a metronome of joy. Behind it came a blur of fur, dogs with floppy ears and limps bounded forward, their paws uneven but determined. Cats with long memories and soft eyes darted through the grass, moving as if they had waited lifetimes for this moment. Parrots with brilliant plumage streaked like fire through the air. Hamsters scurried, horses thundered, and even a few rabbits hopped along, small and unnoticed but present. Their bodies driven by something deeper than instinct, they were running toward home, the crowd gasped as understanding struck. Then came laughter, startled and bright. Then hands flew to mouths, and hearts broke wide open in silent recognition. A woman near the center fell to her knees as a gray tabby leapt into her lap. Toby, she whispered, touching the familiar white patch on his chin. My God, Toby. A child screamed with glee as a tiny Pomeranian raced into his arms. Button, you came back, you came back. An elderly man knelt slowly as a black Labrador trotted up, his cloudy eyes clearer than they'd been in years. The man let out a strangled cry. Duke, you still remember me? The dog barked once and nudged his wrinkled hand with a wet nose, and the man laughed through his tears. Everywhere bodies collided in joy, fur against faces, wet noses against cheeks, wings fluttered, paws padded, tails wagged. Even people who hadn't owned pets in decades found themselves surrounded. And for a few long shimmering minutes, the park became paradise. Amid the reunions, one figure stood alone. Near the edge of the field, just beyond the joy, a man in his 60s stood still, hands buried deep in his coat pockets. His posture was rigid, his face unreadable. He watched as dogs bounded past him, cats leapt into arms, and birds soared to meet open palms. But none came to him. His eyes scanned the trees, the grass, the sky, nothing. Of course not, why would wrecks come back? Dogs do not return from what is lost, not like this. He felt the shame rise in his throat, hot and choking. The kind of shame that didn't wash off with time or water. The kind that clung to memory and regret like sap to skin, sticky and persistent. Then he heard it, a soft whine, barely audible over the breeze. He looked up, nothing stirred at first. Then again, this time closer, more certain. And then a shape emerged slowly between two clusters of tall grass. Limping, mud-stained, but unmistakably familiar, wrecks. Arthur's knees buckled under the weight of what he saw. He dropped to the ground, sobbing into his hands. I'm sorry, he choked. I'm so, so sorry, you didn't deserve that. I was angry, I was cruel. I never said it then, but I never stopped thinking it every day. I'm so sorry. Wrecks didn't move, not yet. Arthur looked up, his eyes raw with grief. I don't expect you to forgive me. I just needed you to know I know, I know.
Script:
Her paper-thin skin brushed against my arm as she reached for the salt. It was soft and limp. When does skin become like that? I looked into her watery blue eyes. I knew no one was in there, really. But I looked hard for her. She smiled as she would smile at the grocery store teller. I smiled back, not as I used to smile at her. But she wouldn't have known that. How do you like the sandwich? I asked. She nodded. It's good. She gets that sandwich every time we come here. I knew it was good. I guess I was hoping she'd say something like, Good, as always. She had mustard on the side of her lips. I had gotten used to wiping her mouth with a napkin, but waited to see if this time she would notice it herself. She saw me staring at her and smiled again. Not hungry? She asked. The next day I took her to CVS. She enjoyed walking through the beauty section, looking at all the colors, and barking on how much of a selection there was. She always insisted on bringing her fold-up shopping cart, even though the most she ever bought was a lipstick or a candy bar. We always walked there, she pushing her shopping cart, me, hands in my pockets. Every time I picked her up to go, she said, I can go by myself, you know, with a little chuckle. Can't a girl spend time with her mother? I countered. A little bit of recognition came into her eyes this time, and out we went. Her crimson lipstick dressed up her face. You look nice. Thank you, I found this dress in the back of my closet. It was always the same dress.
Script:
The next morning brought no relief from the tension that had settled over the house like a suffocating blanket. Aunt Mariko moved through her routines with the rigid precision of someone barely containing explosive rage, her eyes following Aiko's every movement with suspicious intensity. You're going to call Mrs. Sato today, she announced. You're going to tell her that you can no longer help at her salon, that your family situation has changed, and that she should not contact you again. Aiko stared at the paper. Mrs. Sato's phone number was written in Mariko's sharp handwriting. Aunt Mariko, please don't. The word cracked like a whip. Don't call me that, and don't argue with me. You will make this call from the kitchen phone where I can hear every word, and you will end this ridiculous fantasy once and for all. Uncle Kenji wrestled his newspaper uncomfortably, while Daisuke and Yumi ate their breakfast in unusual silence. Even they seemed to sense that something fundamental was shifting in the household dynamics. What if I refuse? The question hung in the air like smoke. Mariko slowly turned to face her, and Aiko saw something dangerous flickering in her aunt's eyes. Not just anger, but a kind of desperate fear that made her unpredictable. Then you pack your belongings and leave this house today, Mariko said with deadly calm, and don't think for one moment that your precious Mrs. Sato will take you in. When I explain to her what kind of family she's been dealing with, what kind of trouble you represent, she'll want nothing to do with you. What do you mean? I mean, Mariko continued, stepping closer, that I'll tell her exactly what your mother was really like. Not the sanitized version everyone remembers, but the truth. How she used people, manipulated them, discarded them when they were no longer useful, how she destroyed every relationship she ever had in pursuit of her own glory. Aiko felt something breaking inside her chest. That's not true, isn't it? Do you think she was some kind of saint just because she can make hair look pretty? Mariko's voice rose with each word. She was selfish, Aiko, completely, utterly selfish, and you're exactly like her. I'm not, you are, sneaking around behind my back, lying to my face, putting your own desires above your family's needs, just like she did, just like she always did. The accusation hit Aiko like a physical blow, but beneath the hurt, she felt something else rising, an anger that had been building for months, years, a lifetime of accepting blame for things that weren't her fault. Maybe she left because you made her life miserable, Aiko said, her voice steady despite the trembling in her hands. Maybe she succeeded because she refused to let bitter people crush her dreams. The slap came so hard, it knocked Aiko backward, her hip striking the kitchen counter with enough force to leave a bruise. But Mariko wasn't finished, her hand moved again, this time closed in a fist, striking Aiko across the temple with enough force to make her vision blur. How dare you, Mariko hissed, grabbing Aiko's hair, the healthy, well cared for hair that had started this confrontation, and yanking her head back painfully. How dare you defend her to me? You want to know what your mother really was? She was a disease, a cancer that infected this family and destroyed everything she touched. And now you're trying to spread that same poison. Let go of me, Aiko gasped, clawing at her aunt's hands. Not until you understand, Mariko snarled, shaking Aiko like a ragdoll. Not until you promise me you'll abandon this insane pursuit and start acting like a grateful member of this household, instead of a selfish parasite. Something inside Aiko snapped, the months of secret training, the weeks of preparation for Stellar Academy. All of it crystallized into a moment of absolute clarity. She was not going to spend the rest of her life being punished for her mother's choices. She was not going to let fear destroy the one chance she had at building something better.
Script:
Aaliyah sat at a corner table near the window with a steaming cup of tea cradled in her hands. Her phone vibrated on the table, plunging her out of her thoughts. It was a message from Deanna. How's your networking meeting? Or rather, networking. Winky face emoji. Aaliyah smirked, rolling her eyes at her friend's jest. She typed a quick reply. It's just a meeting. Keep your smirks to yourself. It took Deanna nearly half a beat to respond. Sure, sure, just don't forget to breathe. Aaliyah thought about her conversation with Deanna a few hours back. She had looked at Rome's Instagram message and pondered what to say. Deanna had been scrolling through her phone on their couch when Aaliyah asked. He wants to meet about some investments, Aaliyah said, her tone neutral. Deanna almost dropped her phone. Are you kidding? Investment is the most obvious excuse in history. There's definitely more to him than just investments, Aaliyah. Aaliyah shrugged, stifling her own complicated feelings. It doesn't matter. I'll give him advice if he needs advice, professionally. Deanna gave her a look that was knowing, uh-huh. Do promise me you won't overthink this. It sounds cliche, but sometimes things don't need to be overanalyzed to death. Sitting in the cafe now, Deanna's words replayed in her mind. Aaliyah swallowed her tea, steadying herself. The bell above the cafe door jingled, bringing her back to herself. She looked up, heart fluttering at the sight of Rome striding in. Aaliyah's breath caught as he walked to her table. She sat up, though her facade remained unruffled. Rome stopped at her table, his smile as real as she remembered. Hey, he said, his voice smooth and warm. Hi, she said, returning his smile as he sat down. This was it, the beginning of whatever this could be. Rome adjusted his chair, leaning forward with his elbows on the table, and gave Aaliyah a friendly smile. So, he said, his voice calm and curious. You work in finance. That's impressive. Honestly, I don't know much about that world. Aaliyah took another sip of her tea, keeping her professional demeanor intact. It has its challenges, but I enjoy it. Numbers have always made more sense to me than people. Rome chuckled softly, his laugh deep and sincere. That sounds like something my mom used to say. She worked as an accountant in Memphis before she retired. She had a calculator on her bedside table, said it helped her fall asleep.
Script:
I expected you. Myrna tapped her thick fingers on a high counter. I hear you've been asking many questions about Rosa's missing baby. You should just let things be. Is that what you do? I asked. She rolled her eyes and relaxed her large form into the stuffed chair behind a little table and a cash register. I handed her the bracelet. Humph, she said. What's this? I stole it last year. Sorry. Her eyes snapped at me, sharp and beady. Well, she said, tossing it on the floor. I'm glad you won't be trying for any more freebies. Now what do you want? I followed a boy and want to know who he is. Myrna's thick eyebrows shot up to her black hairline. Why do you think I know? He comes in here to buy desserts. He, lots of boys buy treats, Emma. You're wasting my time. I stomped a foot. A blonde foreigner wears nice clothes. She put down the bowl of pudding, its caramel crust untouched. Have you asked Pablo about the murder yet? A child shoved open the store door. She glared, so he left. If Pablo is a murderer, why did you pay him to be my friend? I quickly covered my mouth with my hand. Pablo told you, Myrna growled. I was protecting you, you little brat. Always running around like a wild creature. Your Dari is an oblivious, stupid woman. I had to warn them all to protect you. Why? The gang almost killed you. Neighbors stepped in to help raise you.
Script:
Nancy sprang to a position directly behind her chum and peered ahead into the darkness, as though by magic, the shoreline had vanished. The blinding rain made it impossible to see more than a few feet beyond the bow. Hold to your present course, she advised, shouting to make herself heard above the noise of the storm. It can't rain like this for long. The gallant little motorboat plowed defiantly through the waves, but the steady chug of its engine did not comfort the two girls. They knew that they were miles from camp, and should anything go wrong with the motor, they would be entirely at the mercy of the waves. A jagged ribbon of lightning illuminated the path ahead. Catching her breath, Nancy Drew leaned forward and peered into the inky water. What she saw froze her with horror. Directly ahead floated a big log. About, Nancy cried frantically. About, Nancy shouted again. Helen gave the wheel a vicious turn. The boat responded, but not quickly enough. The log loomed up in the water ahead. With a splinter and crash, the boat struck it. The sudden impact of the blow threw Nancy Drew backwards. She went sprawling into the bottom of the boat. Helen, who still clung to the steering wheel, screamed in fright. Nancy, are you hurt? She demanded fearfully. Nancy did not reply, but hastily scrambled to her feet. Instantly, she saw that the collision with the log had torn a jagged hole in the side of the craft. Water was pouring in through it. Quick, Nancy ordered sharply, we must bail or we'll sink. She sprang forward and tearing off her coat, tried to stuff it into the hole. Helen caught up a rusty pail and began to bail. She worked madly, but in spite of her efforts, the water came in faster than she could dip it out. It's no use, she groaned, we're sinking. Nancy, too, realized that they could not hope to stop the leak. The boat was doomed, and they with it, unless aid came to them quickly. Shout for help, she ordered, someone may hear us. Cupping their hands to their lips, the girls shouted again and again. Help, help, they screamed desperately. There was no answer. The wind howled derisively in their ears, mocking them in their plight. What shall we do? Helen demanded hopelessly. Already the two girls were standing in water over their ankles, and each instant the boat was settling lower. A big wave bore down upon them, and Nancy, who saw it coming, realized that it meant the end. A deluge of water poured in over the sides. We're lost, Helen cried, we're lost. The words ended in a choking gurgle as the waters closed over her head.
Script:
Senor Gonzalez was sitting in his chair. When I walked in, he immediately sat on a stool, freeing the chair for me. The coffin took the bed. It was shiny, black, and waiting. I wanted to ask him about it, but the words seemed to hold my mouth shut from the inside. I thought asking Rosa was easier, but it wasn't, and I knew that sometimes you didn't ask things. There's my Amma, I was wondering when you would be coming, he said. You always know it's me, I whispered. I shut the door tightly and welcomed myself to a sofa chair, full of biting bugs. How are you? He rubbed his hands. I scooted the heater closer to him. Rosa hasn't been talking to you, has she? I asked when I only wanted to know about the coffin. It was a strange-looking coffin, with an unusual oblong shape. I wondered who put it in there for him, and why on his bed? An old man couldn't move it to sleep. She doesn't talk to anyone anymore, he sighed. I looked around his room. The dishes were done, and everything was in good order. At least I didn't have to remind him again that he might eat a cockroach. Either he was cleaning, or Rosa helped him. I should have found her baby, but I didn't know how to look, I said. You've never seen the baby, so your eyes would probably deceive you. He stood up and rummaged through the contents of a shelf. It was always interesting watching a blind man trying to find something. If that baby came back now, well, sometimes going back hurts more than going forward. Rosa would be better, I said. I touched the shiny coffin and felt a chill up my spine. Would she? He asked, expecting me to guess the answer. He handed me a glass of water and went back to his bookshelf. Something was floating in the water, so I just held it. Everything on the shelf was perfectly organized. Papers, books, glasses, and a plate. He knew exactly what he sought, but it didn't seem there. She isn't your mother, Senor Gonzalez said dully, staring at me with his blind eyes, which had no color but were like opaque marbles. He usually wore black glasses to hide them, but I was visiting him in his darkened room. I wish she were. I wondered why I had said it. How could I wish Rosa was my mother? She was beautiful and strong, but she couldn't erase the burdens in my life. Jari was like my mother, but I knew that even my basic needs exhausted her. Yet, how could I even think that Rosa could be a mother to me? I would be helping her. Why? His voice grew hard. I didn't know why. Perhaps I needed someone to call mother. I fidgeted with a fingernail. She needs me, and maybe... You don't need her. You just want her. He eased himself back into his stool. There was nothing wrong with wanting Rosa for a mother. Why are you saying this? Don't you love Rosa? You told me to learn from her. Oh, Emma, I love Rosa more than you know, but you are a child who shouldn't allow her worries to be yours. You'll have your worries if you don't already. You can't worry about adults. Don't you want me to have a mother? He smiled at me. Yes, of course, but Rosa is complicated. She must find what she seeks, and so must you. You can be friends, but her problems might bury you, and you can't be buried.
Script:
When the suggestion was made that George run for president, he was at first hesitant. With all the inadequacies he'd felt as a child, how could he be leader of the free world? But Helen and others pointed out that many past presidents had done lousy jobs. And the more he thought about it, envisioning himself in the highest office in the land, the less stigma did he feel for having a bum leg. His campaign got off to a good start. He was charismatic and humorous. With his charming wife and four pretty daughters, he was obviously a good family man. But shortly after he began stumping across the country, an ad appeared on television with a picture of a club foot and some ugly platform shoes. His opponent, actually from the same party, had said, Do you want these platforms on your platform? What platform is he really running on? George thus explained to the world that he didn't have a club foot, only a foreshortened leg. But fighting back was too much. All the pain he had felt as a young boy returned, and he decided to withdraw from the race. It was the outcry from the public and the sympathetic press that made George decide to run a second time. But when Barbara was arrested, he opted out again. Helen's disappointment turned into a lifelong grudge. Her father says that Helen never forgave him and would have left him if it hadn't been for the presence of the children's riding instructor, Baron Wolfgang von Klapp, who had for a long time been indispensable to them both. When her children were old enough, she told George that it was imperative for the daughters of a senator to ride. You never knew, she said, when they might be invited to go on a fox hunt in England. The Baron's Academy was where the girls tried to learn. It was not easy. We were so afraid of everything, Mary wrote. Why shouldn't we be afraid of horses? Alice, the youngest, who may or may not have already fallen from grace, Mary wasn't sure, was the only one who seemed able to keep her saddle. Jawohl, jawohl, the Baron would say each time she completed a successful round in the ring. But that was only when he was watching and not lost in conversation with Helen. This is how it was when Margaret's horse, a big gray gelding, began to gallop madly around the ring. It wasn't for the first time, but she fell off anyway and lay crumpled in a heap. During the next several months that she spent with a cast on her leg, von Klapp tried to make amends by becoming a frequent visitor, and thanks to Helen, he and the senator got along splendidly. It wasn't long before George discovered what a boon the Baron was at political events in Orange County. To the rich constituents in Newport Beach, always on the lookout to meet the right people, von Klapp impressed them with his name. For the poorer people in Huntington Beach, well, von Klapp being German was, by association, a good enough reason to endorse the senator. Almost at once, the Baron took Helen's place on the hectic drives to Orange County, which was fine with her because she was tired of hearing the same subjects discussed over and over—money, the stock market, and women's breasts.
Script:
Be My Valentine Jane Smith was still new at applying makeup. Her mother, Linda, was a devout Catholic woman with traditional values who had only recently allowed her only daughter to experiment with mascara, but no lipstick, blush, or eyeliner until high school. Thirteen years old was far too young for that, even if some of the other girls' mothers were allowing it. Also, Jane stood in front of the bathroom mirror, concentrating hard as she lifted her shaky right hand up to her face. She was determined to master the art of mascara application during her last year at Lanigan Elementary School, grade 8. This was enough of a challenge. She had no interest in trying eyeliner or anything else until she could do this with ease. She blinked repeatedly from the fear of stabbing herself in the eyeball with the tiny black brush again. Once she had completed the top lashes of her right eye successfully, she felt some confidence about doing the left eye, a confidence that was short-lived when the brush dropped a small goop of mascara on her lid just below the lash line, right above her eyeball. It tickled and caused her eyes to blink uncontrollably. She felt like she might sneeze. Before she could wipe it away with the Kleenex tissue, black tears tinged her left eye and began flowing down her left cheek. Darn it, she cursed. It was already 7.45am and she had to be at Trisha's house by 8am to pick her up for school. Jane wet the tissue with cold water from the tap in front of her and dabbed her teary eye until it stopped stinging. She focused, once again, on the task at hand. The mascara on her right eye had already dried perfectly. She could do it! She can make her left eye perfect, too. Determined, she dipped the mascara brush back into its container, then took a deep breath and focused on her left eye. Jane lifted her hand up slowly, trying her best to control the shaking as she slowly brushed the top lashes with a fresh coat of mascara. Success! It had only taken 7 minutes total this time. Jane! Her mother called from the kitchen. It's time for school! Coming! Jane answered back, spraying her permed hair with one last coat of Final Net to keep it in place. Here, Jane's mother said, handing her a paper bag lunch to place in her backpack. Your Valentine's Day cards are in the front pocket. Linda still had her nursing uniform on and she looked tired from the last of her three 12-hour night shifts in a row. Have fun! She said, pouring herself a cup of coffee and sitting down at the kitchen table to enjoy it at long last. Thanks! Jane smiled, stuffing the bag lunch into her backpack and closing the zipper. Then she was out the door to greet Tricia, who stood waiting for her at the end of her driveway directly across the street. Tricia started each school day walk in the same manner, with an overview of the latest gossip she had learned from her telephone marathon sessions, trips about town, or parents' visitors the night before. So, like, it's true, the Archibalds are moving to Saskatoon soon, Tricia started. My mom and I ran into Alan and Elaine at the hockey rink last night, and like, Alan got a position at the Royal Bank in the city, so he's leaving this weekend to start his job on Tuesday. Unlike Jane, Tricia was surprisingly confident around everyone, no matter what their age or status, and she had no problem asking people about their lives to keep up with the town's news. Tricia continued with more gossip. And like, last night at suppertime, like, my dad said there are more whispers of a strike at the Potash Mine. Yeah, I heard about that too, Jane replied. From whom? Tricia inquired, with a raised eyebrow. Mom and dad mentioned it over supper last night, like, I think they're pretty worried about it. That's for sure.
Script:
You're going back to the pastry boy's house? Pablo sat down, out of breath. He wore cut-offs and his usual tank top. A pungent, sweet smell came from his armpits. It was your idea to follow him in the first place, I pouted, tempted to smell my armpits. Did they smell sour too? Yeah, I thought we should follow him once. It seems ridiculous to assume that he has the baby. Mateo is strange, anyhow. Mateo is pretty smart, Pablo. But you're right. No one ever lets us in those big houses. I want to see inside the pastry boy's house. Maybe he'll be our friend. Oh, you want to be friends with him, Pablo stated, his eyebrows raised. I'm just curious, I said, sitting next to him. Is your father back? You haven't been around. Ignoring my question, Pablo leaned against the carton full of pineapple he had been carrying. The wind kicked dirt around our humid legs, so I sat with my skirt pulled over my knees. My eyes burned from the dust, and I felt it glide up my shirt with each gush of wind. He pulled out his notebook to write. Is that a new notebook? I asked. He nodded but didn't stop writing. I fill one a week and then bury it with the others. Really? You bury them? I couldn't believe that I didn't know that. I always choose a blue one, so my mother doesn't guess it's a different notebook. I guess you didn't know that either. He looked at me with a hurt look, a tinge of sharpness. I felt the guilt tug at my heart. It seemed like there was always something I wasn't doing right. I should have known about the notebooks. I should have known everything about Pablo. But I didn't.
Script:
Lydia's trembling finger remained pointed directly at him, her lips still parting with that low rhythmic chant that had now become unbearable. You better take care of my daughter, you better take care of my daughter. Each repetition grew more guttural, more deranged. Her eyes, wild and unblinking, never left his. There was no trace of the Lydia he once knew in that gaze. Jace took an involuntary step backward, then another. She moved with him, slowly, methodically. The distance between them narrowed, as if she were being drawn to him by a force neither of them could see. Her body shivered violently now, the movement not unlike the rattling of leaves in a rising storm. Her pointed fingers seemed less an accusation now, and more a curse. You better take care of my daughter. Jace's back met the cold wall behind him with a soft thud. He looked left, then right, but the narrow nursery offered no easy escape. Daisy still stood by the changing table, eerily composed, eyes lowered, as though none of this was happening, as though she had slipped into some other world entirely. Lydia, Jace said at last, his voice breaking, stop this, please just stop. But she kept coming, until she was so close that he could see the red veins in her eyes, the spittle at the corner of her mouth, the sheen of sweat on her brow. Her finger hovered mere inches from his chest now. The chant didn't falter, it continued, relentless, ominous. You better take care of my daughter. Jace's breath came shallow now, a primal part of him told him not to touch her, not to move, not to even speak. There was something unnatural in the way she looked, possessed. Then, like the crack of a pistol in a quiet room, a voice tore through the air behind them. What are you doing? Back up now. It was his mother's voice, sharp, commanding, and unafraid. Sharon stood at the edge of the nursery, eyes blazing, one hand slightly extended as if to shield her son. The other clenched tightly at her side. The spell, whatever it was, broke in an instant. Lydia jerked back as if she'd been struck. Her mouth hung open slightly, her finger fell away, and her body slackened. She blinked once, then twice, her expression shifting into something dazed and unreadable. Jace exhaled, not realizing he had been holding his breath. Back up, Sharon said again, slower this time. Her tone laced with the kind of authority only a mother could summon. Step away from him. Lydia, now trembling in a new way, said nothing. She turned toward Daisy, who remained silent, still looking anywhere but at them. No one moved. The nursery had grown thick with something that couldn't be named, a heavy choking silence that felt like it had weight.
Script:
Suddenly, the locket and the keys in their pockets started humming. Their vibrations growing stronger with each passing moment. The ground beneath them trembled. The tremors grew into full-blown earthquakes. The ground shaking violently. The people of the Iron Fish Stockade screamed in terror, scrambling for safety. The children were caught in the midst of the chaos. They held on to each other, their bodies trembling with fear. What's happening? Kensington cried in fear. I don't know, Bianca said, her voice filled with a sense of foreboding. The children knew they had to escape. But as they ran, they couldn't shake the feeling that they were being watched. Then, as they rounded a corner, they saw it. A figure standing in the shadows, its eyes gleaming with an eerie light. The figure raised its hand, fingers pointed toward them. You're not supposed to be here, the figure said, its voice cold and menacing. You're not supposed to know. The children stopped in their tracks, frozen with fear. Who are you, Bianca asked, her voice trembling. The figure smiled a cruel and twisted smile. I am the one who will stop you, the figure spoke. We need to hurry. We have to see the king or queen of this place, Bianca said. Where can we find them? What are their names? Answer us. Dominic waved the paintbrush to put the figure under a spell, urging him to speak up. The Ironfish Kingdom is ruled by two very strong women. So strong that they have survived for many years and kept their people safe. Queens Haida and Sarah Green are called the Green Queens. And like the steelhead fish, they cannot be broken. Where are they, Liam asked. They are in the tower locked in and to never be let out. And with that, the mansy travelers headed out in the direction that Bianca's compass was pointing. As they reached the place, two huge steel doors were blocking their way to the chamber. Maybe one of the keys will unlock the doors? Bianca's eyes widened at that possibility. Hurry up, try the keys. Kensington pushed a key into the lock and the knob turned. The heavy groan of the massive steel doors echoed through the chamber as they slowly creaked open, revealing a spiral staircase that ascended far into the darkness above. When they finally reached the top of the staircase, they found themselves standing at the entrance to a large circular room. In the center of the room stood a large iron cage. The bars were thick and heavy, and it looked like it had been built to imprison someone or something very powerful. Startled by the noise, Queen Haida's head snapped up. Who are you, she asked, her voice trembling slightly with fear and uncertainty. How did you get in here? The children hesitated for a moment. Although they were invisible, Bianca took a deep breath and stepped forward. We're here to help, her voice echoed softly in the vast chamber. Queen Sarah, her face filled with confusion, looked around the room as if trying to find the source of the voice. We can't see you, she said, her voice trembling slightly as she gripped the iron bars of the cage. We're the Manzi Travelers. We've come from far away. Our mission is to help you and stop the evil that threatens our homes. How can we trust you? Queen Haida asked warily, her eyes narrowed as she studied the empty space where the children stood. We don't even know who you are. Trust your instincts, Bianca said gently. You can feel it in your hearts, can't you? We mean you no harm. Slowly, they nodded, acknowledging that these mysterious children might indeed be their only hope. We need to stop the evil spirit. We know how to stop the spirit, Bianca said confidently. She reached into her pocket and pulled out the keys the old woman had given them. Without wasting any time, the queens used the keys to unlock the iron cage. The heavy door swung open with a loud creak, and the queen stepped out, their faces filled with newfound resolve. We're ready, Queen Haida declared. Let's go defeat the evil spirit and save our people.
