The blue box part 8: The Night of the Tooth: The Discovery That Breaks Every Rule. VIDEO

The Night of the Tooth The purple light does not fade. Does not expand. It folds. Obsidius feels as if someone has folded the space around him, like a sheet of paper closing in on itself. The sanctuary disappears. Lila disappears. Kym disappears. The gun, the Scorpion, the silk patch — everything fades into a fold of violet that crumples around it and spits it out the other side. It is not in the world of two suns. It's in a hallway. The wallpaper is cream-colored, with a pattern of faded roses that time has turned brown. The light enters through a window at the back, but it is a dirty light, a rainy afternoon, that does not illuminate as much as it reveals the shadows. There is a smell of humidity and soup. And there is a sound: an argument coming from behind a closed door, voices that he cannot distinguish but that he recognizes somewhere in his spinal cord, in that part of the brain that stores the sounds that precede pain. The man's voice is a contained roar, like an engine that has trouble starting. The woman's voice is higher, faster, like someone trying to put out a fire with words. The boy in the hallway—the boy that Obsidius was—knows those voices. He knows what they mean. He knows that at any moment one of them will stop talking and the silence that precedes the blows will begin. Obsidius looks at his hands. They are not adult hands with marked veins and calluses from years of work. They are small hands. Child's hands. The skin is clean but the nails have dirt underneath, as if he had been playing in the garden. 

Listen to your own breathing. It's faster than normal. More superficial. Breathing of someone who is afraid. He knows this is a memory. The purple eye has brought him here, to the exact moment that Lila has been hiding for twenty years. But knowing it doesn't protect you. Memory has smell, it has temperature, it has texture. The wallpaper is peeling off in one corner. The wood floor creases in the same place as always — the third board before the door to his room. His room. The door is ajar. On the other side, the metal bed. The bed where he slept every night for seven years, whose edges he knows with his toes, whose springs have sung the same song every time he has turned. The sheets are wrinkled. There is a glass of water on the nightstand. And on the pillow, something that shouldn't be there. 

To blue box. There is nothing else in the room that could attract attention. The toys are few and worn. The books are loans from the school library. But the blue box glows with a color that does not belong to any visible spectrum. It's blue, yes, but it's also something else. It is the color of a sky that the child has never seen. It is the color of an ocean that does not exist in this world. Obsidius recognizes her before his childish hand touches her. It's the same recurring dream box, the one that has always appeared in the nightmares that Sarah tried to explain as "bad digestion." But it's not a dream. It's a memory. And the box is real. More real than anything else in that room. It is about fifteen centimeters long. It is made of a material that looks like lacquered wood, but when the child touches it, the surface is cold. 

Not cold like wood. Cold as metal in winter. Cold as something that does not belong to this world, something that has traveled across distances not measured in kilometers. The boy takes it with both hands. The box weighs more than it should. Inside there is something that moves. Not a physical movement — a movement in perception, as if the object inside the box was constantly changing shape, adapting to the space it occupies, like an animal settling into a burrow that is too small. There is an inscription on the cover. It is in a language that the child does not recognize. But adult Obsidius, looking from the depths of memory, can read it. Not with the eyes—with the membrane. The words are written in the same language that Lila uses when she speaks from the other side of the eye. The inscription reads: "For him who must remember." The child does not understand the words, but he understands the message. He knows the box is for him. He knows he has to open it. He knows that once he does, nothing will ever be the same. Adult Obsidius wants to scream not to open it. He wants to break through the memory and tear the box from the boy's hands. But he can't. This has already happened. 

There is nothing to change. You just have to remember. The boy opens the box. Inside there is a tooth. It's not just any tooth. It's your tooth. A baby incisor, with the root stained with blood and a small piece of flesh still attached, as if it had been torn off with violence. The boy looks at him without understanding. He doesn't remember falling. He doesn't remember hitting himself. But the tooth is there, in the blue box, and the blood is fresh, and there is a dull ache in his jaw that he hadn't noticed until now. He puts his hand to his mouth. The index finger finds the gap. The holes bleed. The boy doesn't understand how he lost the tooth, but the hole is there, and the blood tastes like metal, and the blue box is still open on the bed, waiting. 

The hallway behind him creaks. Obsidius turns around—or rather, the boy turns around, and Obsidius sees through his seven-year-old eyes. A woman is in the hallway. It's not Lila. It's not his mother. She is a young woman, in her mid-twenties, with dark hair in a tight ponytail and an oversized leather jacket. His eyes are a color that the child cannot name — green, but with a reddish glint in the background, as if he had a light on behind his retina. Obsidius knows that look. "Kym," he whispers, but his child's voice doesn't produce the sound. The young woman does not respond. He can't hear it. This is a memory. She is seeing the child, not the adult Obsidius watching from within the memory. "You shouldn't have opened the box," the young woman says. His voice is different. Sharper. Less scratchy. 

But there is something about the intonation that is unmistakably Kym: that way of speaking as if he knows something you don't, as if each word is a warning disguised as information. -Who are you? —asks the boy. His voice trembles. He doesn't know if this woman is a threat or a salvation. He just knows that it appeared out of nowhere, right after the blue box appeared on his bed. "Someone who watches over you," she says. Someone who was here before you were born and who will be here after you are gone. You can call me Amber. “Amber,” the boy repeats. —It's not my real name. But it's the only one I can give you now. The boy observes the Scorpion on his arm. The ink is fresh, raised on some edges. The wound has not finished healing. —Does it hurt? Ámbar looks at her own arm as if seeing it for the first time. "Yes," he says. But pain is part of the deal. The woman extends her hand. On his right forearm, under the leather jacket, there is a flash. Obsidius sees it clearly now: the same Scorpion he has seen in adult Kym. But on this young woman, the Scorpion is barely healing, as if the tattoo was recent, as if the mark had been etched into her skin just a few days ago. "You have to give it back," she says. The tooth has to go back into the box. The box has to go back to where it was. And you have to forget that you saw this. -Because? —Because if you don't forget, she can't get in. And if she doesn't come in, you die. The child does not understand. But adult Obsidius, observing from within, understands this perfectly. The woman who will be Kym is not a guardian. She is a messenger. It is there to prepare the way. Because the one who comes after is not human. The hallway darkens. It's not that the light goes out — it's that the air becomes denser, as if someone had increased the atmospheric pressure inside the house. The young woman takes a step back and lowers her gaze. Not out of fear. 

Out of respect. Purple light fills the hallway. It doesn't come from any direction. It is everywhere at the same time, as if color were a gas that seeps from the walls, from the ceiling, from the floor. The faded rose wallpaper glows with a violet hue, and the roses seem to move, open, breathe. Lila emerges from the light. But it is not the Lila of the patch and the empty socket. It is not the Lila of the sanctuary and the candles. It is a Lila that Obsidius has never seen: whole. With both eyes. With a presence that fills the hallway like water fills a glass. She floats a few inches off the ground, and her hair moves as if she were underwater, even though there is no wind. "Hello, little one," he says. His voice doesn't come out of the air. It comes from inside his head. Like the membrane. Like the purple eye. Like everything that's been there from the beginning. The boy steps back. The blue box falls to the ground. 

The tooth rolls across the wood and stops at Lila's feet. "Don't be afraid," she says. I didn't come to hurt you. I came to offer you a way out. —A way out of what? Lila doesn't respond. But adult Obsidius knows the answer. He knows that behind the closed door, the argument has turned into blows. He knows that the blood on the tooth is not from a fall. He knows that the child is bleeding from the mouth because someone hit him. He knows that if Lila doesn't arrive at that time, the child might not survive the night. “I can make the pain go away,” Lila says, floating. I can make everything disappear. The hallway. The roses. The discussion. The blows. The tooth. There. I can give you a new life. A life where you don't have to remember any of this. A life where you can be happy. -Happy? —the boy asks, as if the word is strange to him. “Happy,” Lila repeats. Or at least, calm. Fearless. No memories to wake you up at night. The boy looks at her. His seven-year-old eyes try to process what he's hearing. On the other side of the hallway, the discussion continues. 

A sharp bang against a wall. A brief cry that is cut off immediately. Lila waits. He's not in a hurry. He knows that the child's response is the only currency that matters to him. —In exchange for what? —the boy finally asks. Lila smiles. It's a sad smile. —In exchange for a place to stay. -I don't understand. “I need an anchor in this world,” Lila says. A living being to cling to so as not to get lost on the journey. Your world and mine are separated by a space you cannot imagine. Crossing it without an anchor is like jumping into the void without a rope. You would be my rope. Behind him, the Scorpion's young woman watches silently. The tooth is still on the ground. The blue box is still open. And at the edge of memory, barely perceptible, there is something else. 

The Hunger. Adult Obsidius feels it before seeing it. That pressure behind the left eye. That feeling of being observed from a distance that is not measured in meters. Hunger is not within the memory — it is at the edges, like a damp spot growing on the periphery of vision. You can't get in. Not yet. But he's looking. He is learning. It's waiting. The child extends his hand. Not towards the blue box. Towards Lila. —Will it hurt? “Just a moment,” says Lila. Like when you fall asleep. And when you wake up, you will be someone else. You won't remember any of this. Not even the box. Not even the tooth. Not even the discussion. Not even the blows. You will have a new, clean childhood, as if nothing had happened. -And you? -asks the boy-. Will you remember me? Lila hesitates. It's the first time he's hesitated since he appeared in the hallway. "Yes," he finally says. I will remember for both of them. The boy nodes. 

He doesn't understand everything that's at stake. But understand enough: if you say no, the pain continues. If you say yes, the pain ends. For a seven-year-old child, there is no more complex calculation than that. "It's okay," he says. I accept. Lila extends her hand. His fingers touch the boy's forehead. And the world turns purple. Adult Obsidius senses the exact moment the deal is sealed. It's like a snap inside his chest, like a bone breaking and healing at the same time. The membrane in his left eye forms in that instant — an interdimensional scar that connects him to Lila forever. It is not a symbol. It is an umbilical cord made of purple light, invisible to human eyes, that binds its existence to hers. Light fills the hallway. The wallpaper is peeling off the walls. The roses dissolve in the air. The sounds of the argument fade away like a radio whose cable is cut. The boy falls to the ground. Unconscious. 

But he doesn't cry. He has no tears for this. He is seven years old and has just sold his memory in exchange for a life he doesn't even know if he deserves. The young woman—Ambar, who will be Kym—picks up the tooth from the ground. He holds it between his thumb and forefinger, as if it weighs more than it should. She looks at him for a moment, and there's something in her eyes that adult Obsidius recognizes: it's not pity. It is recognition. She has also made this deal. She also sold a part of herself to stay alive. There is a long pause. The purple light begins to retreat. "He's yours now," says Lila, referring to the unconscious child. “No,” says Ámbar. It's yours. I just came to make sure the deal was clean. —And it was? Ámbar looks at the tooth in her hand. Look at the boy on the ground. He looks at the blue box that begins to fade, its edges becoming translucent, as if it never existed. "It's never clean," he finally says. But it's the only deal there is. —Wasn't yours clean either? Amber doesn't respond. 

But his free hand rests on the Scorpion on his forearm, and his fingers caress the fresh ink as if he were reading a message etched into his own skin. "Mine was different," he says. Mine wasn't a deal. It was a sentence. The hallway begins to dissolve. The walls lose color. The roses on the wallpaper are blurred. The purple light slowly retreats, like a receding tide. Adult Obsidius feels that he is being expelled from the memory. But before he leaves, he sees one last thing: At the edge of memory, where Hunger lurks, there is a crack. Small. Faint. 

But it is there. Hunger has managed to mark the memory. You can't change what happened. But you can observe it. You can learn from him. It can wait. The shrine returns in a flash so violent that Obsidius thinks he's going to vomit. He is on his knees. His hands are shaking. The purple eye is still in his right hand, but now he holds it like someone holding an ember, knowing that it burns but unable to let go. He's out of breath. His chest rises and falls in waves he can't control. Lila looks at him from her chair. There is no surprise on his face. I knew this would happen. 

He knew the membrane would take him there, to the exact moment she had hidden for twenty years. Kym is still at the door. His gun points at the ground. Her face is pale, as if she had also traveled to the past, as if she had also seen Ámbar in that hallway. "I know your name," Obsidius says without looking up. The name you had before you was Kym. Amber. Kym closes her eyes. When he opens them, there are tears that do not fall. —It's been a long time since anyone called me that. "You were there," Obsidius says. You saw everything. You saw the deal. Dress the box. See the tooth. -Yeah. —And you never thought about telling me? Kym puts the gun in her belt. Not with a gesture of surrender. With one of fatigue. "Every day," he says. 

Every damn day for twenty years. Silence fills the room again. But it is not an empty silence. It is full of unanswered questions. Obsidius stands up. His legs shake, but he stands firm. He looks at the purple eye in his hand, feeling its warmth, its pulse. “Amber wasn't your real name,” he says. You said it was the only one you could give. “Kym isn't my real name either,” she replies. None of the names I've ever had are real. The Scorpion is the only thing I have always worn. It's the only thing that defines me. "So who are you?" Kym opens her mouth to respond. But Lila interrupts her. “You won't find that answer looking back,” he says. That answer is ahead. Obsidius turns to Lila. There's something different in his look now. It's not the fear of before. Nor is it submission. 

It is something closer to fury, but cold, controlled. "You used me," he says. My whole life has been a lie that you made up to survive. "I saved your life," says Lila. Without me, you would have died that night. The blows were not going to stop. The man behind the door wasn't going to stop. I offered you a way out. —You offered me a cage disguised as an exit. You don't need to do it. They both know it's true. Obsidius looks at the wall. There, where the air trembles slightly, there is a crack that was not there before. It's not a crack in the plaster. It is a crack in reality, opened by the journey through the membrane, like a seam that has torn. On the other side, barely perceptible, there is something that breathes. Something that waits. He hasn't entered. But he has left his mark. 

As in the memory, as in the blue box, as in the tooth. Hunger knows where the crack is. And he knows that if the membrane opens completely, he will be able to pass through it. “We have to close that,” Kym says, pointing to the crack. -And how? —Obsidius asks. "Returning the eye," says Lila. "No," Kym says at the same time. Looking again. Obsidius looks at them both. Lila, who offered him a life in exchange for his memory. Kym, who was Ámbar, who witnessed everything and never said anything. The purple eye pulses in his hand. "Now," says Obsidius, "I'm going to decide." But in his eyes there is something that was not there before: certainty. He has seen the truth. And the truth, although it hurts, has an advantage over lies: it can be fought. Outside, the crack in reality pulses in time with the eye in his hand. Hunger waits. But Obsidius is no longer the boy who accepted a deal without understanding it. Now understand. And he's going to pay back the deal, piece by piece.