Marvel: Silver Hand

The morning light streamed through the window, painting the small room in soft hues of gold. Alexander stretched in bed, blinking sleepily at the unfamiliar surroundings. It had been his first night in the house, and though it felt strange, the quietness of Snow Valley was oddly soothing.

He got out of bed and padded downstairs, the faint smell of bacon and pancakes drawing him toward the kitchen. There, his Aunt Clara stood at the stove, flipping pancakes with practiced ease.

"Good morning, Alex," she said, glancing over her shoulder with a warm smile.

"Morning," he mumbled, rubbing his eyes. "Is Mom awake?"

Clara's smile faltered slightly. "Not yet, sweetheart. She needs some time to rest and… process everything. It's been a lot for her."

Alexander nodded, though a pang of sadness tugged at him. He missed his mom the way she used to be—vibrant and full of life. "Okay."

Clara finished cooking and placed a plate in front of him, piled high with fluffy pancakes and crispy bacon. He sat down and dug in, the familiar taste bringing a small comfort.

As he ate, Clara leaned against the counter, sipping her coffee. "I have to head to work soon," she said. "I'm a teacher at the Snow Valley School for Girls. If you need anything, just call me on the house phone, okay?"

She handed him a piece of paper with a phone number written on it in neat, careful handwriting.

"Okay," Alexander said, folding the paper and slipping it into his pocket.

Clara ruffled his hair before grabbing her coat and keys. "I'll be back in the afternoon. Be good, and don't get into too much trouble, alright?"

"I won't," he promised, though she gave him a skeptical look before leaving.

After breakfast, Alexander wandered into the living room and turned on the TV. He flipped through the channels, settling on a cartoon he used to watch before everything changed. For a while, he lost himself in the bright colors and silly jokes, laughing occasionally despite the weight that lingered in his chest.

But as the hours ticked by, he found himself growing restless. His thoughts drifted to his mother, and he decided to check on her.

Quietly, he made his way to her room. The door was slightly ajar, and he peeked inside. She was still asleep, her face hidden beneath the blankets. He considered waking her but decided against it. She looked so fragile, and he didn't want to disturb her.

As he wandered through the house, his curiosity got the better of him. The old home was filled with odd creaks and quirks, and he found himself drawn to the basement door at the end of the hallway.

Alexander opened the door to reveal a narrow staircase leading down into the shadows. The air felt colder as he descended, the wooden stairs creaking beneath his weight.

The basement was larger than he had expected, with shelves lined with old boxes and tools. But what caught his attention were the weapons—rows of swords, shields, and pieces of armor, all carefully displayed on racks.

"Whoa," Alexander whispered, his eyes wide with awe. He picked up one of the swords, its blade dull but still impressive. Swinging it clumsily, he imagined himself as a knight or a hero from one of his favorite movies.

Behind him, Celebrimbor's wraith form materialized silently. The elf observed the room, his gaze drawn to a chest in the corner. It was covered in strange, faded symbols, and an oppressive energy seemed to radiate from it. Celebrimbor's expression darkened.

As Alexander swung the sword, the wraith moved closer to the chest, his form flickering faintly. The sinister aura emanating from the chest was unmistakable—a relic of darkness, something that did not belong here.

Alexander eventually set the sword down and noticed the chest. He tried to open it, but the lid wouldn't budge. Frowning, he gave up and turned back toward the stairs, his curiosity satisfied for now.

Celebrimbor lingered near the chest for a moment longer before following the boy back upstairs.

Back in the living room, Alexander returned to the TV, trying to shake off the strange feeling from the basement. For a while, he managed to forget about the chest, the weapons, and the strange energy that had lingered in the air.

But Celebrimbor could not forget. As he hovered silently in the corner, his gaze flicked toward the basement door, unease settling deep within him. Whatever secrets the house held, he knew they would not remain hidden forever.