Uncle Shom Part3 May 2026

I felt the air change. The house groaned. Somewhere above us, a clock began to tick backward.

Part 2 was the basement door that opened onto a staircase with thirteen steps—no matter how many times I counted.

“Which one do I open?” I asked.

Now, this is Part 3. I arrived on a Tuesday in October. The leaves were the color of bruised plums. Uncle Shom didn’t greet me at the door. Instead, I found him in the parlor, sitting before a wall I had never noticed before. It wasn't a wall of plaster or wood. It was a wall of locks.

“That lock was placed there the night your mother left,” he said. “She asked me to keep it closed until you were old enough to understand.” uncle shom part3

Hundreds of them. Padlocks, skeleton locks, combination locks, rusted iron deadbolts, tiny brass suitcase locks, a clock-face lock with no hands. They covered the surface from floor to ceiling, each one fastened to a ring bolted into the dark oak.

Part 1 was the jar of fireflies that never died. (He shook it on Christmas Eve, and they spelled a name I’d never heard: Liora. ) I felt the air change

By an unreliable nephew