Closed Loop

Chapter 8: The Same Day

      A soft breeze drifted through the window, carrying the scent of cut grass and the soft, rhythmic clicks of a sprinkler from a nearby lawn. It stirred the loose papers on Mark's desk, a quiet rustle in a room that had been still for hours. They sat on the floor surrounded by the debris of their vigil: a candy bar wrapper, a dense sheet of sketches, and a clock.
        An entire night had evaporated, lost to the singular, gravitational pull of the dark wooden chest that now sat open between them. The air in Mark's bedroom was stale and thick. Mark had talked for hours, the words tumbling out of him with a relief that was nearly physical, explaining the rules, the history, the sheer, unbelievable truth of his life's silent companion.
        Lydia sat cross-legged on the floor, her back against the bed, her gaze fixed on the empty interior of the chest. She listened with a fierce intelligence, her mind leaping ahead to deduce principles that had taken Mark weeks of trial and error to comprehend.
        "It's like Schrödinger's cat," she said finally, her voice cutting through the silence. The thought had clearly been coalescing for some time. "Like a superposition of infinite possibilities, all existing at once." She looked up at him, her eyes clear and serious. "Anything could appear in that chest. But the moment something does arrive from the future, the uncertainty collapses, becoming deterministic".
        Mark nodded, a slow smile spreading across his face. He had never thought of it in those exact terms, but she was right. She understood. In all the years he had lived with this power, he had felt utterly alone with it. Sitting across from her, the profound loneliness of his secret—a weight he hadn't realized he was carrying—finally began to lift.
        A comfortable silence settled between them before Lydia's expression shifted, a playful, practical glint appearing in her eyes. "So," she began, leaning forward conspiratorially, "are you a billionaire yet?".
        The question was so mundane, so perfectly teenage, that Mark laughed. "No. I've mostly used it for... inspiration. Music, stuff like that."
        The question was so mundane, so perfectly teenage, that Mark laughed. It took him back to his own first couple of weeks with the chest, a frantic period of scribbled notes and get-rich-quick schemes. His grandest fantasy had involved a pile of gold, a glittering pirate's horde appearing on his bedroom floor. He'd painstakingly arranged the moment for over an hour, only to have the fantasy collapse as he spent just as long sending it all back. The appeal of easy money had evaporated in that moment, replaced by the more complex quest to enrich his life with experiences rather than objects.
        "Music is great," she conceded, "but it doesn't pay for gas." As if summoned by her words, the chest emitted a low, deep rumble that they felt through the floorboards. Mark scrambled forward on his knees and peered inside.
        Lying on the bare wood were three items. Mark reached in, his fingers closing around the first: a single car key on a simple metal ring. It was the key to his dad's old station wagon, which was currently parked in the driveway while his parents were out of town for the weekend. Next, he picked up two laminated cards. They were fake IDs, cheap but convincing enough, bearing their pictures with prefabricated names and addresses. Lastly, he lifted a small, folded piece of paper. He opened it. Scrawled in his own neat handwriting was the name of a convenience store two towns over and the name of a specific scratch ticket: "Lucky 7's".
        He looked up at Lydia, a wide, incredulous grin on his face. Her eyes were huge, sparkling with a mixture of confusion yet pure, unadulterated excitement. The abstract theory of the night had just become a concrete plan for the day.
        The drive to the store was filled with a giddy, nervous energy. Lydia held the IDs, turning them over and over in her hands. Mark drove, appreciating the station wagon's stubborn personality. The groan of the driver's side door and every squeal from the worn brake pads were reminders of road trips gone by.
        They passed through familiar suburban streets. Sunlight flickered through the overhead trees, casting shifting patterns across the dashboard as they drove past manicured lawns and identical houses. Lydia finally broke the silence, a nervous laugh escaping her. "So according to this, I'm 'Jessica Smith' from Weymouth. Should we come up with a backstory?" she asked, tilting the laminated card in the light. Mark offered a tight smile, his eyes fixed on the road. "Just act normal. We go in, you buy the ticket, and we leave. Simple."
        He pulled into the parking lot of the convenience store. The place was unremarkable, with a sun-faded soda advertisement in the window and a propane tank exchange cage bolted to the cinder block wall near the entrance. Mark parked near the edge of the lot, a few spaces away from the entrance. They sat there for a beat, the engine ticking as it cooled, the giddy energy in the car momentarily replaced by a shared, silent acknowledgment of the moment. Lydia's heart hammered against her ribs. She knew, logically, that this had to work—the chest had sent them the key and the note, after all. But logic did little to calm the nerves of a girl about to use a fake ID for the first time. She glanced at Mark, who sat perfectly still, his expression calm and focused. Mark gave her a short, decisive nod. Lydia took a deep breath, tucked the fake ID into her back pocket, and opened the door.
        The chime above the door announced their arrival with a cheerful, electronic ring. Inside, the air smelled of stale coffee, and the coolers along the back wall hummed loudly. A bored-looking clerk glanced up from his phone, his expression unchanging. Lydia grabbed Mark's hand as they walked to the counter. Behind the clerk, a colorful wall of lottery tickets was displayed under a plastic shield, a rainbow of flimsy promises. Mark pulled out a crumpled five-dollar bill from his hand as he prepared to ask for the one ticket that wasn't a gamble at all. "Lucky 7's please," he said calmly, extending his ID to the clerk. The man barely glanced at the ID before sliding the glossy ticket across the counter.
        They walked out of the store without a word. Once outside, Lydia let out a low whistle. "My heart is going a million miles an hour," she whispered, a nervous laugh bubbling up. "For nothing. He didn't even look."
        "Told you," Mark said, his own calm finally breaking into a wide smile as they walked toward the car. "Nothing could go wrong." The nervousness was already fading, replaced by the certainty of what was about to happen. Reaching the station wagon, she felt the sun-warmed metal of the hood beneath her hand, ready for the reveal.
        Leaning against the warm hood of the car, Lydia used the edge of a coin to scratch away the silver coating. The final box revealed a matching symbol. At the bottom, in small, neat print, was the prize: $1,000.
        She stared at the ticket. That last, tiny, rational sliver of doubt she had clung to simply dissolved. She looked up and caught Mark's gaze, then they burst out laughing. His eyes had been fixed on her face the entire time, a calm, knowing smile playing on his lips. He hadn't needed to see the proof; for him, the outcome was already a fact. He had only wanted to watch her final moments of uncertainty.
        On the drive home, the crisp stack of twenty-dollar bills sat in a neat stack on the console between them. Lydia ran her finger over the edge of the stack. "I don't mean to sound spoiled, but..." she said, her brow furrowed in thought. "Why only a thousand? Shouldn't you be a millionaire?".
        "Because that's how you get noticed," Mark explained, his voice calm and steady as he navigated a turn. He had thought about this before, late at night, weighing the limitless potential against the practical risks. "A grand is nothing. A kid gets lucky with a scratcher. It happens. But a teenager winning a multi-million-dollar lottery? That brings questions". He glanced over at her, then back at the road. "And, besides... We can always get more".
        The thrill of their success lingered even as they returned to Mark's room. Mark placed the car key and the two fake IDs back into the chest, then took a pen and a small piece of paper from his desk. He neatly wrote down the name of the convenience store and "Lucky 7's" before adding the note to the chest's contents. He turned the dial, pressed the glowing green button, and with a familiar whoosh, the items vanished.
        "What do you usually do with it?" Lydia asked, gesturing toward the chest. Her curiosity had shifted from the initial shock of its existence to a deeper desire to understand his relationship with it.
        "Music," Mark said simply. "Sometimes, when I'm stuck on a piece, or just need a little inspiration..." As if on cue, the chest let out a soft rumble. He opened the lid to reveal a single, rolled-up sheet of music. A grin spread across his face, genuine and excited. "See? Come on, I'll play it for you." He snatched up the sheet and headed for the door, his footsteps quickening as he went downstairs toward the piano.
        Lydia began to follow, but hesitated at the doorway. "I'll be right down," she called after him. "Just need to use the bathroom." She waited until his footsteps faded on the stairs before slipping back into the bedroom. Just as she approached the chest, it rumbled again with a low, definitive thud.
        She shot a look over her shoulder, then raised the lid just enough to reach in. One quick movement and the object was in her hand. A moment later, it was buried in the fabric of her pocket. A quiet exhale escaped her—the sound of relief. It was a secret, a small piece of leverage just for her. She alone knew this object had arrived, which meant she alone would be the one to send it back at a time of her choosing. It was an insurance policy against the uncertainty of the future; a guarantee that her relationship with chest was meant to last. As long as she kept this secret, she was certain she'd have access to it.
        Composing her features, she headed downstairs, where the opening notes of a beautiful, complex melody were just beginning to fill the house. She found Mark at the piano, his fingers moving across the keys with an expert grace, his head bobbing between his hand placement and sight reading the melody.