It began, as all unscheduled domestic mythologies do, with thunder.
Not the celestial kind—no, this was the accusatory clap of the washing machine giving up on its purpose.
Gregory stood before the appliance like an underqualified wizard facing a sentient cauldron. Steam hissed. Buttons blinked with the aggressive patience of a babysitter who has seen things.
Maurice peeked over the laundry basket. "Did it eat your clothes again, or just your will to live?"
Gregory poked the door. "I think… it rejected a sock."
From within the sudsy void, The Sock had reappeared. The Sock. That sock. The one infused with breakup lasagna memories and baked-in self-doubt.
It was no longer merely purple.
It was... glowing.
A faint, unsettling violet light, like a disco for ghosts.
Maurice gasped. "It has ascended."
Gregory knelt reverently. "What do you want from me?"
The Sock vibrated ominously.
And from behind him, came a tiny, regal voice: "We have convened."
