The Curious Inheritance of Oliver Grayson

Descent into Shadows

The stairs leading to the basement were narrow, illuminated only by a weak overhead bulb that flickered every so often. Each step echoed ominously, and Oliver gripped the banister, trying to stabilize his unsteady legs. The lawyer led the way, holding a small flashlight he'd found in the study. Its beam cut through swirling dust, revealing old cobwebs clinging to the stone walls.

A peculiar chill settled in the air as they descended. Oliver found himself clenching his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering—not just from the cold, but from the anxiety roiling inside him. Reading through Uncle Harold's notes had made it clear that any hope of reversing his age regression likely lay somewhere in this hidden chamber. Still, a voice in the back of his mind wondered if the basement might hold more unsettling discoveries than solutions.

Halfway down, the lawyer paused. "You doing okay?" he asked, turning to check on Oliver.

Oliver, teetering on the step behind him, forced a nod. Yet in truth, he was struggling. His arms and legs felt heavier, and more than once, he'd realized his feet hadn't landed exactly where he intended. It was as if each small movement required a greater effort of will. He couldn't deny the creeping fear that his coordination—and maybe other adult faculties—were slipping further away.

At the bottom of the stairs, they entered a long corridor lined with old shelves. Jars filled with strange, unidentifiable substances dotted the walls. Most of the labels had faded, and a few jars had cracked over time. The smell of stale earth and mildew drifted through the air.

Following the corridor, they finally came upon a reinforced wooden door. Its thick iron hinges looked rusted, but the door itself was oddly well-preserved, carved with the same swirling patterns that had adorned the trunk upstairs. The lawyer tried the handle and found it unlocked. With a firm shove, he pushed the door open, and they stepped into a larger chamber.

Oliver's first impression was that this room had once been a root cellar—a place to store produce or wine casks. But now, it appeared to be some sort of makeshift laboratory. A crude wooden table stood in the center, littered with glass vials, half-burnt candles, and stacks of parchment. At one side of the room, a small hole in the stone ceiling let in a narrow shaft of light from the world above, illuminating a few stray leaves that had drifted inside.

Quietly, they moved to the table. The lawyer switched off his flashlight, letting the pale natural light guide them. Oliver peered at the vials, noticing some were filled with shimmering liquids reminiscent of the potion he'd drunk. Others stood empty, dust accumulating inside.

"Uncle Harold must've done his experiments here," the lawyer murmured, gingerly setting his papers down. "Let's see if we can find anything—notes or a recipe—something that explains how to reverse this."

Oliver pulled himself up on tiptoe, pressing his small hands against the table's edge to get a better look. He spotted a thick book with warped covers, likely damaged by the damp environment. The spine read "Elixirs and Essences." Heart hammering, Oliver opened it. In his excitement, he hardly noticed the subtle ache in his stomach or the peculiar numbness settling in his lower belly.

As he flipped through the yellowed pages, swirling script and alchemical symbols leapt out at him. Most were entirely foreign, and even the ones in English made little sense—a list of ingredients as bizarre as "moonlit dew" and "root of dusk." Occasionally, he recognized references to the "Family Gift," scrawled in the margins.

While Oliver skimmed, the lawyer had begun a more systematic search, rifling through old notes and sketches. The only sounds were the rustle of parchment and the faint drip of condensation trickling down a wall. In that quiet, Oliver began to feel a slow realization crawl up his spine.

Something was off. He hadn't felt any urgent signals this time—no sudden cramp like before—but there was a peculiar warmth that made him tense. A sudden dread washed over him as he wondered if—no, that can't be.

The next moment confirmed it. The lawyer, moving to stand beside him, bent to pick up a stray page from the floor. Pausing, the man looked at Oliver more carefully, his expression shifting from mild concentration to subtle alarm.

"Oliver," he said, voice gentle but edged with concern, "I think you...uh—"

Oliver didn't need him to finish. Heat flooded his cheeks. He looked down, realizing the diaper felt heavier, slightly sagging against his hips. A wave of humiliation and fear tightened his throat—he hadn't even noticed he'd gone. No urgent warning, no conscious decision—just a quiet slip of control.

"I—I didn't feel it," Oliver stammered, wide-eyed. His voice sounded small, frightened. How long had he been standing there, reading, while his body simply... did what it wanted?

The lawyer's brow furrowed sympathetically. "It's okay. We can—let's handle this. We'll figure out the rest afterward."

But Oliver's thoughts swirled with panic. This was more than just a physical inconvenience. If he was losing awareness of something as fundamental as needing the bathroom, what else might slip away soon? His ability to read complex texts? To understand the research that could save him?

The basement's chill deepened in his mind, no longer just a physical cold but a creeping dread. He took a shaky breath and carefully set aside the tome he'd been reading. "I...should probably head back upstairs," he managed. "I have to...change. Again." His face burned at the admission.

The lawyer nodded, expression solemn. "All right," he said quietly, clearing his throat. "We'll come back with clean clothes and maybe set up a better light source, too." He glanced around at the gloom of the cellar. "This place is definitely key, but we need to handle one thing at a time."

Oliver nodded, though his vision blurred momentarily as tears threatened. He sniffed, forcing them down. He might be physically reduced to a toddler—might be losing ground mentally, too—but he refused to give up on the possibility of a cure.

They left the chamber in a rush of unspoken tension. Each step back up the staircase felt heavier to Oliver, as though the house itself bore witness to his struggle. And as they emerged into the hallway's meager light, Oliver silently vowed that he wouldn't let Uncle Harold's so-called Gift steal away all he was. Not without a fight.