The Curious Inheritance of Oliver Grayson

Beneath the Foundation

Oliver recognized a stylized tree with twisted roots. It reminded him of the sketches referencing the "family heritage." He ran a small finger over the carving, the cold stone prickling his skin. "This... This has to be it," he breathed. A flicker of excitement sparked in him; maybe they were finally close to a cure.

They pressed on and entered a vaulted chamber that was larger than any in the upper basement. Crude pillars supported the ceiling, and a hollowed-out central area looked like it once held water. Broken pottery and ancient-looking crates lay scattered around.

In the center of the room stood a low, circular platform—a dais of sorts—chiseled from the same grey stone. More of those swirling symbols wrapped around it, reminiscent of the trunk and the journal. The lawyer stepped forward, shining his flashlight, revealing spidery writing across the dais's surface.

Oliver recognized a few words from Uncle Harold's journal: Renewal, Heritage, Life's Root. His heart pounded. If this was the place where the original elixir had been concocted or stored, perhaps they'd find a means to reverse it. He was about to voice his hope when his words tangled on his tongue. Instead, a small, unsure sound came out.

"Oliver?" the lawyer asked, pausing in his inspection of the dais. He turned, the flashlight's glow illuminating Oliver's anxious face. "Is something wrong?"

Oliver opened his mouth again, frustrated at his sudden speech glitch. "N-no, I just—" He paused, brow furrowing. He had to consciously form each word. "It's harder to... talk." Admitting it stung, but ignoring the issue wouldn't help.

Concern flickered in the lawyer's gaze. He squeezed Oliver's shoulder gently. "Let's see if we can find a clue fast," he said, his tone determined. "Look around for anything that might be a hidden compartment or a place to store vials. We know Uncle Harold liked to hide things."

Oliver nodded, stepping carefully to one side of the chamber. He ran his palm along the cold stone wall. Each step echoed softly, punctuated by the muffled rustle of his diaper. He forced himself to stay alert, trying to shake off the mental haze that threatened his focus.

As he neared the dais, he noticed that the floor around it sank slightly, forming a shallow ring. Moss and lichen clung to the crevices, making the stones slick. He crouched down, using his fingers to brush away the grime. Maybe there was a hidden panel—something that concealed the antidote or instructions for reversing the potion.

Suddenly, his concentration wavered. Oliver realized he was hungry—no, tired... or both. His mind drifted, and he caught himself nearly pitching forward onto the wet stone. Standing back up too quickly, he felt a brief rush of dizziness. Come on, he urged himself, stay with it.

Lost in thought, Oliver didn't notice the faint cramp in his abdomen this time. A mild shift, like a distant echo, rippled through him. It slipped by so quietly that he didn't register what his body was doing until he felt the diaper sag heavier between his legs. Yet again, there was no wave of alarm, only a muted recognition: I used my diaper, he thought dully. This is normal now.

The realization made him tremble—less from embarrassment and more from the fear of how little it bothered him. He knew he should care. Once, even a day ago, he'd have flushed crimson at the thought. But now... it felt routine.

Before he could say anything, the lawyer called from the far side of the chamber. "Oliver, come look at this!" His voice echoed against the cold stone walls.

Oliver turned, forcing himself to shuffle across the damp floor, ignoring the newfound weight in his diaper. He reached the lawyer, who was shining the flashlight at a patch of wall that gleamed faintly. Carved into the stone was an ornate emblem of a tree with roots spiraling into a keyhole shape.

"It matches the symbol in Harold's notes," the lawyer whispered, voice taut with excitement. "If there's a lock here, we might need some sort of key. Or maybe—"

Tentatively, he pressed his hand against the keyhole shape. A low rumble reverberated through the chamber, and a hairline crack in the wall glowed softly. Oliver's eyes widened, a surge of adrenaline pushing through his mental fog. This had to be a breakthrough.

But just as he opened his mouth to speak, he realized anew how cumbersome forming words had become. The regression was tightening its hold. If they didn't solve this puzzle soon, he might lose even the ability to read or communicate.

The lawyer met Oliver's gaze, concern flaring behind his own excitement. "Hang in there," he said quietly. "We're so close. Let's see what this wall reveals."

Oliver nodded, the soiled diaper squishing uncomfortably as he shifted his weight. That humiliating detail was overshadowed by a greater urgency: a chance at a cure was right in front of them. If they could just figure out how to open that hidden panel, maybe the final key to reversing his condition lay beyond.

Steeling himself, Oliver stepped closer, determined to pour what remained of his adult faculties into unraveling Uncle Harold's final secret—before it was too late.