James receives both a gift and devastating news from his grandmother. This gift elevates his journey, as it stands on the precipice of the mysteries. His reasoning and resolve strengthen to pursue the shroud of uncertainty surrounding  his grandfather's disappearance as he heads to Europe.

Chapter 1 - Matriarch

My son, the time has come.  We shall split the world in two. Let the people hear the ancient sound. Guide them along the path of the gate by teaching the way.

My son, bring forth my sound and arise…

The snow falls softly with an audible silence, tenderly positioning itself on the cold earth. Its descent creates the gentlest of sounds, barely detectable over the rest of nature’s music.

The light from the front porch of my grandmother’s house glistens off of the white flecks of snow as they travel through the frigid air of this Christmas Eve night.

As far back as I can remember these evenings have bore a particular sadness, a hollow sadness that has evolved into somewhat of a family tradition in the Jean-Louis household.

A longing of better times, infused with the suffering from an unspoken past, has forced the creation of metaphorical masks in my family. Cracked smiles, fraudulent laughter, bickering and chaos taking place for boredom’s sake fills the empty void over time that we fail to remember who we are without them.

The halls of my grandmother’s home are filled with the delicious scent of the traditional Christmas Eve ham, freshly consumed.

The tantalizing scent of fresh-baked cookies follow closely behind.

Boisterous laughter, along with the clinking of glasses pierce through the rooms of the house. Distant members of the family have always possessed a sense of being more distinguishable, than my immediate relatives in our familial settings.

They convey an air of brevity and joy that, since my youth, felt so unmistakably unique yet foreign, especially considering my own home life.

I quite enjoy them.

Their presence always feels like a gift. A release. They give me permission to let go of my own troubling angst and imagine life as a happy one.

Regardless of my upbringing, the familiarity of this house warms my heart every time I step through its doors.

Memories of my youth, in the home of my grandmother, are consistently filled with love and comfort. Which brings the news of her cancer to be most earth shattering. She has survived and thrived scares before, however this feels different. She feels different.

As the meal continues to be enjoyed, the cookies bake and the sound of familial banter permeates throughout the house I find myself wandering the hallway towards the bedrooms.

Generations of Jean-Louis’ rest on the walls of the old home.

I pass each face, stopping before the most recent generation that I’ve never met.

The face of a man who is lost to time, but shoulders the weight of being fully alive.

While contemplating the old portrait I feel a warm presence behind me.

“The kindest man I ever met.”

Turning back I see my grandmother, though living with newly discovered cancer, she radiates of effervescent life. Immediately, I recall the doctors grave information, sharing with us that this may be her last Christmas. The passage of time has been her faithful ally through the years, but something is different about her, as she stands next to me. Mortality she wears.

As she gazes at my grandfather’s portrait her eyes fill with a deep love that masks a tremendous pain. A 30 year old pain unforgivingly finding a way to remain fresh. A relentless suffering highlighted in her worship-like gaze at the image of a Herculean man. Her deep ocean-blue eyes gloss over as she moves closer towards my grandfather’s portrait. One hand reaches for his face, a face of distinguishable character. Her other hand gripping a tray of dishes from another Christmas Eve dinner spent in his absence.

We take in the photo together. He possess a smile that shares the memories of trial and error. A man who has seen the best and worst in humanity; reserving judgement for someone greater than himself.

As she takes in my grandfather’s portrait, I begin taking her in…

My incredible grandmother.

To be honest, it’s an understatement.

Power, strength, grace, intelligence.

She has been the rock of our family.

“Jimmy come with me, I want to show you something.” She says.

She places the tray of used plates on the side table and gestures for me to follow. A few doors down lies my grandfather’s study, a sense of trepidation and fear creeps over me. I always remember this room being off limits as a kid.

Memories begin to flood back when, as a child, I would sneak in here. My Dad, feverishly, reprimanding me for wandering into rooms I shouldn’t.

The door creaks open. This room hasn’t seen the presence of another human in years.

Bookshelves line the walls, preserved and protected by layers of cobwebs.

“Your granddad would spend hours in here. This room always had music coming from it. So much life…I miss him so much.”

Her loss, even after 30 years is overwhelming.

We had spoken about my grandfather numerous times in the past, I heard the stories dozens of times. The police closed the case 20 years ago. They suspected he ran off with another woman. No body was ever found. No foul play was suspected, but my grandmother knew in her heart that that wasn’t the case. She held onto the belief that something happened and the police never found the right clues or answers to piece together a sustainable investigation.

Her speaking about him was nothing new, but something was different today.

“The worst part of this is never having closure. I still don’t know what happened. Years, decades, still no answers.

It’s affected your father. Being a young man and having your dad disappear. No reason why. I saw your dad blame himself.

I tried filling that void, but as the years went by I knew I couldn’t”

Tears well up in her eyes. I want to comfort her, but I feel inadequate to do so. She begins to wipe them away, looking at me, with a soft, loving look emanating from her eyes.

“I have something for you.”

In the corner of the room, at the edge of the cobweb infested bookshelf, nestled in the corner, she pulls out an old, acoustic guitar. Its body bears the marks of decades of use. Years of wear and tear lay bare on its surface. Rust and dust coat its three remaining strings.

As if it was her child, She cradles its wide body with one hand, the other gently gripping its thin neck. A reverent awe over comes her in the presence of this symbolic piece of her husband.

She sighs, “Hmmm. I wish you could have seen him play Jimmy.” She looks up at me, “I wish he could have seen YOU play. He would be so proud of you.

Here…” Extending the neck of the guitar towards me she says, “He would want to you have it”

Meeting her halfway, extending my hand to accept this sacred piece of my grandfather. As I soak in every little mark and dent along its frame, I can’t help but feel this is the holy grail in my hands.

“Grandma, I don’t know what to say….Are you sure you want me to have this?”

“Jimmy, it’s meant for you. It’s been in here, untouched for years. I have no need for it.”

A minute of silence passes between us.

And, to this day, I don’t know what made me do it, but I plucked the low E string in the midst of our pause.

Maybe, I wanted an end of the silence.

Upon plucking it, a low rattle vibrates, filling the room, and suddenly, what can only be described as a buzzing sound continues to be heard. The buzzing ceases after a moment, and a metal sound is heard, dropping inside the frame of the guitar.

My grandmother looks at me inquisitively as I do with her.

“Was that…in the guitar?” She says.

“I’m not sure.” Answering back.

“Probably an old pick of his.” She says.

I raise the guitar, ever so gently above my head, shuffling it back and forth, attempting to get the pick to fall out on its own.

The sound of a pick or coin continues rattling as I shake the guitar.

Over the opening of the sound chamber, a piece of paper folded with, what appears to be, a golden ring with an engraved seal drops out of the guitar striking the floor.

The room falls dead silent. My grandmother stares at the floor, still.

I wait for her permission to pick it up. The feeling of unworthiness comes over me in regards to it.

She leans over slowly, picking up the old looking scroll.

Removing the gold ring seal, she meticulously unrolls the piece of paper.

An archaic looking symbol is engraved on the surface of the gold ringed seal. I’ve never seen a symbol like this before. However, upon catching her eyes, I notice a familiarity as she stares at the insignia. She has seen it before.

As the scroll unrolls in its entirety, an old map of Paris is revealed with a red circle highlighting a section of the city. There is also an inscription underneath that states, “Go where the 3 become 1. Music shall set you free. The gate is near…”

Underneath the inscription is a hand drawn musical staff bar with a series of musical notes written.

“This is his. I recognize his handwriting, Jimmy. This is your grandfather’s handwriting.

I don’t understand what this is. Maybe, he’s here. Maybe, someone has seen him here. Maybe, someone here knows what happened to him.”

Her excitement begins to rise. She breaks out into a coughing fit.

“Jimmy, I have to go here. I need to know before I die.”

“Grandma, you can’t fly to Europe in your condition.”

“But, I HAVE to know. I need answers Jimmy…”

Her coughing worsens.

Seeing the pain in her eyes. The desire for closure inspired me to go.

“I’ll go. I’ll go grandma. If there are answers to be found. I’ll find them.”

I didn’t really believe I would find anything. But, the prospect of giving my grandmother and family closure was all I could think about. Maybe, I could help heal my family. Maybe, I could give them something that’s eluded us for decades.

But, nothing could have prepared me for what was about to happen…

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