Everyone thought Grandma’s old ceramic cookie jar just held stale oatmeal cookies and the occasional dusty peppermint. But I knew better. I had seen it—late one night, after a thunderstorm knocked out the lights—I had opened the jar and found something else inside.

A key.

Not just any key. An ancient-looking one with symbols etched into its brass handle and a faint glow, like it was alive.

No one believed me when I tried to explain. They laughed it off. “You’re too creative for your own good,” Aunt had said.

But now the jar was gone. Not broken. Not moved. Just… gone. And that key—whatever it opened—was gone with it.

I had a feeling someone else had discovered the secret. And if they had taken the key, it meant they were already one step ahead.