Chapter Three: The First Crossing
The weekend came faster than I expected.
By Friday morning, the van was already loaded. Tents, tools, solar panels, a second-hand drone, and a pair of boots that still smelled like the store. My father drove, my mother sat in the front seat, and I was in the back with my sister Kalits, who was pretending to scroll through her phone—but she kept glancing at the duffel bag where the Stone was hidden.
The air felt charged. Like we were heading toward something sacred. Dangerous. Ours.
We arrived at my grandmother's countryside finca just past noon. Quiet, isolated behind tall trees and crooked fences, with enough overgrown land to disappear in. My grandmother, Carmen, met us at the gate, smiling like always, but I could see suspicion flickering in her eyes.
"I thought you were only staying the weekend," she said.
"We are," my father replied. "Just a little family getaway. I need to breathe something that isn't city smog."
She gave him a long look but didn't argue.
Inside, we helped prepare lunch while my mother explained (not entirely truthfully) that we were starting a "project" in the backfield and needed space for equipment. She also asked if they were aware of any large plots of land nearby for sale. My grandmother nodded.
"As long as you don't blow anything up, I don't mind."
That night, after everyone had gone to bed, my parents and I slipped out with a tarp, shovels, and the Stone. We had already marked the location: a flat patch of earth near a line of tall trees. My father dug while my mother watched our backs. I knelt and placed the Stone gently in the shallow pit.
It began to glow.
Not violently—softly, like moonlight on water. The grass rustled even though there was no wind. The portal opened, tall and oval, silent and white. No light leaked beyond the tarp we quickly pulled over it.
My father stared at it for a full minute before whispering, "Are you sure you want to do this now?"
I nodded."I need to know what's on the other side. Not knowing would make everything pointless."
"I'm going with you," he said.
My mother hesitated, torn between protest and curiosity. She handed us each a flashlight and a radio."Five minutes," she said. "No more."
We stepped through.
The first breath I took was thick with humidity. Earthy. Alive. The sky was a deeper blue than I'd ever seen. Towering trees, thicker than lampposts, loomed above. Bird-like calls echoed from the distance, but none sounded like anything familiar.
"My God," my father muttered. "This place is… prehistoric."
We walked carefully, noting landmarks and testing the drone. It worked—barely. Enough to scout the immediate area. The land was untouched. No roads, no ruins, no signs of civilization.
Not yet.
We found a clear stream a few hundred meters from the portal. Animal tracks marked the banks—large ones.
Then something roared in the distance.
"That's our cue," my father said.
We stepped back through. The portal buzzed softly behind us as we collapsed on the grass, hearts racing.
My mother was waiting, flashlight in hand."Well?" she asked.
"We found everything we were hoping for," I said. "And more."
None of us slept that night. We sat in the kitchen, drinking coffee, sketching maps, listing what we'd need: Resources. People. Time.
"The next step," my mother said, "is talking to your grandmother. Carefully. She's no fool."
"And after that," I added, "we bring in the rest of the family. The ones we trust."
"If they agree," my father said, "then this becomes real."
I looked at the Stone on the table. It still glowed faintly. Still waiting.
We'd taken the first step. The second would be harder.
At lunch the next day, while we were all gathered around the table, my father broke the silence.
"Mom, I've been thinking of buying a piece of land on the finca. Or maybe from one of the neighbors. What do you think? Could we work something out?"
My grandmother paused mid-bite and stared at him. She was nearly seventy—strong, respected, a woman who had lived through enough to recognize when something was off.
My sister glanced at us, suspicious, but said nothing. My mother and I were tense.
"How strange," my grandmother finally said. "After all these years, now you want to live in the countryside? I guess you're finally getting old," she laughed. "Alright, which piece do you want? And how big? I'll do the math for you."
She didn't suspect a thing. It was common, after all, for city folk to dream of a quieter life in the hills.
"What do you think of that patch near the woods?" my father said calmly. "Not too big—enough for a small house, maybe a little garden. A change of scenery."
My grandfather, who rarely spoke, cleared his throat."Alright," he said. "Carmen, go get the paperwork. We'll sign. I'll sell you 300 square meters for five thousand dollars. Though honestly, you could've waited till I was dead to take that land."
My father chuckled as my grandmother left to get the documents. In the countryside, land changed hands frequently—it was important to make it official.
"I get it, Dad," my father said. "But I'm not after your inheritance. I just want to start something small. I'll tell you more soon."
My grandfather gave us all a long look, then muttered, "Do what you want. Just don't come crying later."
The deal was done that Saturday afternoon. By Sunday morning, my father had hired a few neighbors to help pour the foundation. It was the perfect cover.
We kept the Stone hidden, of course. But soon, a basement took shape: six meters wide, four meters deep, with a hidden garage-style entrance. When I first saw it finished, I was overwhelmed. It was beautiful. A hidden gate to another world.
We were one step closer.
All that remained now was to tell the rest of the family—the ones who could be trusted with what was coming.