THE MAN WHO FOUND A STRANGE DEVICE IN HIS LIVING ROOM AFTER TEN YEARS OF SILENCE

The digital numbers on the television screen ticked downward with ruthless precision, swallowing seconds faster than Mark could process. The living room grew noticeably colder, the modern heating vents suddenly blowing air that smelled faintly of ozone and rain. Mark stood frozen by the sofa, his fingers digging into the hard plastic of the black remote, while Leo remained completely still in the middle of the room, his eyes fixed on the glowing red digits.

"Turn it off, Mark! Use the power button!" Clara screamed, rushing forward to grab his wrist. Her skin was freezing cold, her fingernails digging into his skin hard enough to leave marks. "Unplug the television! Do it now!"

"It's not plugged into the wall, Clara," Mark said, his voice flat, devoid of panic yet filled with a terrifying realization.

Clara stopped. She looked down at the floor behind the sleek entertainment unit. The heavy black power cord lay completely disconnected, coiled neatly against the baseboard where Mark had left it three days ago when cleaning the carpets. Yet the screen blazed with brilliant, blinding light, casting long, distorted shadows across the bright modern furniture.

"That's impossible," Clara whispered, her hands dropping limply to her sides. "There's no battery backup in that model. You know there isn't."

"I know," Mark murmured. He took a cautious step toward the television. The countdown had reached eight minutes and forty seconds. Beneath the numbers, the name that had haunted their marriage for a decade had vanished, replaced by a string of coordinates that looked suspiciously like a street address in downtown Chicago—the exact address of the laboratory where Mark used to work before the fire.

Leo turned his head slowly, his small neck making a faint cracking sound in the quiet room. He looked up at Mark with eyes that suddenly seemed far too old, far too weary for a two-year-old child.

"They are waiting by the elevator, Daddy," Leo said, his voice dropping an octave, losing its childish lisp entirely. "And they brought the green sweatshirt."

Mark froze. He looked down at Leo. The toddler was wearing a green sweatshirt right now. But Clara hadn't bought it. It had arrived in the mail this morning with no return address.