Chapter 1: The Attic Discovery
The attic smelled of damp wood and forgotten things. Alan’s sneakers sent up little puffs of dust that danced in the slash of late afternoon light cutting through the grimy circular window. He wasn’t supposed to be up here. That was the point.
Boxes lined the slanted walls, labeled in his grandfather’s tight, paranoid script: Tax Returns ’78-’82, Christmas Decorations, Marianne’s Things. He kicked a box aside, the sound echoing in the quiet. He was looking for nothing in particular. Just a place to be alone with the thoughts that swarmed in his head, thoughts thick with the shapes of women—the women who lived in the rooms below him.
His mother’s laugh floated up through the floorboards, warm and rich. Rebecca. He pictured her in the kitchen, that apron tied around her full waist, the way her honey-blonde hair would fall over her shoulder as she leaned over a pot. His cock twitched in his jeans. He adjusted himself, a habit now.
A trunk, smaller than the others, was shoved into the farthest, darkest corner. The brass latch was cold and tarnished. He pried it open, the rust screaming in protest.
Inside, atop a bundle of letters tied with faded ribbon, lay a box. It was modern, sleek, out of place. Black lacquer, no markings. He lifted it. It was heavier than it looked. He flipped the lid.
Nestled in midnight-blue velvet was a remote. It looked like something for a high-end stereo, brushed metal, with a single, prominent button at its center. Below the button, in tiny, etched letters, was an inscription: TEMPUS NON FRANGIT.
“Time doesn’t break,” Alan muttered, his Latin from school coming back in a rusty whisper. “Bullshit.”
He picked it up. It was cool, perfectly balanced. He ran his thumb over the button. A stupid artifact, some old man’s joke. He pointed it at a dusty model ship on a shelf and pressed the button.
Nothing happened. He scoffed, shaking his head. He was about to toss it back when he heard footsteps on the stairs leading up to the attic. Quick, light. Lily.
Panic, sharp and stupid, shot through him. He couldn’t be caught up here. He shoved the remote into his pocket and turned, pretending to examine a stack of old National Geographics as the attic door opened.
But it wasn’t Lily.
It was his mother, Rebecca, one foot on the top step, her hand on the doorframe. “Alan? Sweetheart, are you up here? Dinner’s in twenty—Oh!”
She’d seen the open trunk, the displaced boxes. Her brow furrowed, not in anger, but in gentle confusion. She was wearing a simple peach-colored sweater that stretched over the magnificent swell of her breasts and the soft curve of her stomach. Her jeans were snug. She was a goddess standing in a shaft of dusty light.
“Just… looking for my old baseball cards,” Alan lied, his voice tighter than he wanted.
Rebecca smiled, that warm, all-forgiving smile that sometimes made him want to scream. “Well, hurry it up. Lily’s made a mess trying to make garlic bread, and your aunt Maya’s brought that awful carrot cake again.” She began to turn, to head back down. “And shut that trunk, will you? It’s full of your grandfather’s old nonsense.”
“It’s full of your grandfather’s old nonsense.”
She took another step down, beginning to descend. The remote was a heavy, alien weight in Alan’s pocket. His heart hammered, a frantic drum against his ribs. Without thinking, his thumb found the button again. He pointed it at her retreating form, a joke, a stupid impulse, and pressed.
The world didn’t rewind. It stopped.
The dust motes hung absolutely still in the slanted light. The faint, perpetual creak of the house fell silent. Rebecca was frozen, one foot suspended in the air between steps, her peach-sweatered back to him, a perfect, still-life curve of hip and ass.
Alan’s breath caught. He stood there, stupidly, for five full seconds. Then, a slow, predatory smile spread across his face. His cock, already half-hard from looking at her, thickened painfully, straining against his zipper.
“No fucking way,” he whispered, the words swallowed by the absolute quiet.
He didn’t move at first. The silence was a physical thing, a thick gel packed into his ears. He could hear his own heartbeat, a rapid, jagged rhythm in his throat. He stared at his mother’s frozen form. This wasn’t a trick of the light. She wasn’t paused in thought. She was a statue.
Experimentally, he snapped his fingers. The sound was absurdly loud. He took a step toward the stairs, the old wood groaning under his foot. The sound seemed wrong, an intrusion. He reached out, his hand trembling slightly, and touched the sleeve of her sweater.
The wool was soft. Warm. She was still alive, still vital, just… suspended. Her scent—vanilla and laundry detergent—hung in the unmoving air.
A laugh bubbled up in his chest, harsh and disbelieving. “Holy shit.” This was power. Real, absolute power. The thoughts that usually circled his mind like vultures—dirty, secret, frustratingly out of reach—suddenly straightened their wings and dove.
His hard-on was insistent, painful. He unzipped his jeans, sighing with relief as he freed himself. He was already fully erect, thick and veins. He gripped himself, giving a few rough, slow strokes as he stared at her ass. This was his mother. The thought should have sickened him. It only made him throb harder. The taboo was the point. The forbidden fruit wasn’t just within reach; the entire orchard was frozen, waiting for him to pluck it.
He moved closer, descending one step so he was level with her. He reached out and cupped her denim-clad ass. He squeezed. The firm, full flesh gave slightly under his hand. He groaned, his precum beading at his tip. He could do anything. Anything.
But a sliver of cold sanity cut through the heat. What if it wore off? What if she unfroze with his hand on her ass?
He jerked his hand back as if burned. He needed to understand the rules. He needed to test more.
He looked at the remote. A single button. Did it toggle? He pointed it at her and pressed it again.
Time snapped back with a soft, almost imperceptible whumph. Sound returned—the distant hum of the refrigerator, a car passing outside. Rebecca continued her step down, completely unaware.
“Alan? Did you hear me?” she called back, her voice fading as she descended.
“Yeah, Mom. Be right down!” he called, his voice miraculously steady. He stuffed himself back into his jeans, wincing at the confinement. His mind raced.