He stepped back. And the wall began to turn. End of Part 3.
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.
Uncle Shom pressed the black key into my palm. It was heavier than any metal should be. uncle shom part3
I looked at the silver lock. Then at the wall of hundreds of others, each one humming faintly, like a held breath.
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. ) He stepped back
“That’s the secret, nephew,” he said. “You don’t.”
He smiled for the first time in ten years. Now, this is Part 3
“The first two were lessons,” he said. “This one is a choice.”
By the time I was fifteen, I had stopped believing in Uncle Shom’s stories. That was my first mistake.
He stood slowly, his knees cracking like dry twigs. He held a single key in his palm. It was black iron, warm to the touch, and shaped like a question mark.
“You’re late,” he said without turning.