Chapter 1: Blood Diaries on a Rainy Night

At four in the morning, Brussels lay beneath a sky like a sheet of gray cloth soaked in filthy water, sagging low over the city. The rain did not fall straight down. Swept sideways by the night wind, it lashed the mottled display window of Becker’s Antiques with a soft, desolate patter, like countless invisible needles piercing the deathly silence of the street.

In the attic, the stagnant air was suffocating. Sophia crouched at the top of the creaking wooden ladder, surrounded by the smell of decades-old dust. Her fingertips slowly traced the heavy brass clasp of the heirloom trunk. It felt rough and icy, the rust biting into her skin. That hard, grating friction strangely merged with the sound of her late father’s coughing during his final year—dull, intermittent, each cough carrying an agony like something tearing deep inside his throat. She drew a long breath and pressed down hard on the clasp.

Click.

The brass lock sprang open, the sound sharp and final as it echoed through the cramped space. The instant she raised the lid, the stale scent of gunpowder burst out, mingled with the distinctive acidic tang of old paper pulp. It was the lingering warmth of a war fought in the previous century, piercing the cold indifference of the modern city in an instant. Blood rushed into her palms. Her vision blurred beneath the violent surge of emotion. White light flashed before her eyes, and a diary with a dark brown cover materialized from thin air, lying open upon the trunk’s lining.

The writing on the title page was bold and forceful, its ink still dark: June 6, 1944. Normandy. Sainte-Mère-Église. Iron Rain.

Sophia froze, her fingertips trembling uncontrollably. The black ink slowly bled across the yellowed page, its edges blurring as though the words had just been written by a shaking hand, impossibly vivid and fresh. Trembling, she closed the diary—only to see the clasp spring open again by itself. A worn holy card slipped from beneath the lining, glowing faintly in the darkness. Outside, the rain suddenly intensified, thundering like ten thousand galloping horses. By the weak moonlight, she made out a line of hurried pencil writing on the back: The key is beneath the third brick under the church altar.

At that moment, the old wall clock in the corner of the attic struck nine times. Its muffled chimes passed through the floorboards and mingled with the sudden ringing of the doorbell downstairs, shattering the frozen moment.

Sophia drew a deep breath and swiftly shoved the diary back into the trunk’s hidden compartment, moving with crisp, unhesitating precision. She hurried downstairs, her footsteps tapping softly against the wooden floor.

When she opened the door, a gust of cold, rain-laden wind swept into the foyer. A tall, lean man stood outside, crystal droplets clinging to the shoulders of his dark gray overcoat and sliding soundlessly toward his cuffs. A black umbrella rested at an angle against the doorframe beside him. Water dripped from its tip, sending tiny ripples across a puddle. With elegant restraint, he offered her a gold-embossed business card: Hans Weber, Investigator, European Union Banking Federation.

Sophia glanced at his cuff. An intricate eagle emblem had been embroidered there in silver thread, identical to the insignia on the card. The precise match made her tense. Without betraying her unease, she stepped back half a pace and positioned herself just inside the doorway. Her voice remained steady. “Sir, the shop is not yet open.”

Hans smiled, polite but distant, his gaze discreetly sweeping over the shelves behind her. The slumbering antiques seemed to be whispering secrets to the intruder. “Miss Sophia Becker? I’m here regarding your grandfather’s estate.” From inside his coat, he withdrew an official document bearing a clearly stamped EU cross-border asset assessment seal. The ink still smelled fresh. “The trunk is subject to inheritance tax and cross-border asset disclosure. We need to register the holder’s identity.”

Sophia accepted the document, feeling a chill when her fingers touched the paper. She skimmed it quickly. The date at the bottom was from three months ago, yet the postmark bore today’s date in red. The discrepancy made her brows draw together slightly. She placed the document gently on the counter. “My grandfather’s belongings are no concern of the bank.”

Hans did not answer, nor did he show any displeasure at her refusal. He walked straight to the coffee machine beside the counter, as though he already knew the shop’s layout. “Do you mind, Miss Becker?” He operated the machine with practiced ease. Hot steam spread through the air, blurring their faces. He poured two cups and pushed one toward her, its surface still hot enough to burn.

“Your grandfather was Anton Becker? He served in the Wehrmacht in 1944?” Hans sounded casual, but every word pricked like a needle.

Sophia’s fingers tightened. The aroma of the coffee suddenly turned bitter. “Yes. But why are you investigating that?”

Hans took a sip, his gaze unfathomable. “The bank is obligated to verify wartime asset declarations.” His eyes settled unobtrusively on her wrist. She had just touched the trunk, and faint traces of copper rust remained on her knuckles, starkly visible beneath the dim light.

Sophia turned to fetch the sugar bowl, pretending to straighten the shelf. With her back to Hans, she swiftly reached into the diary’s compartment, pulled out the holy card, and slipped it into her sleeve. The movement was so quick that even she felt a chill in her fingertips. Turning back, she added sugar to her coffee. The stirrer tapped softly against the side of the cup. “You say this is a verification, yet the document doesn’t even list the heirs.”

Hans set down his cup. His fingertips tapped a measured rhythm against the counter—tap, tap. “You’re very sensitive about Normandy.”

Sophia stirred her coffee as the sugar cube crumbled in the swirling liquid. “Everyone learns about it in military history class.”

Hans smiled, his thumb brushing the rim of his cup in a gesture of appraisal. “You’re sensitive to history. Good. Sensitivity often means a deep memory.” He lifted his coffee. The rim was dry, unmarked by lips. Steam still curled from its surface; the temperature clearly had not dropped.

Sophia stared at the cup, then spoke abruptly, her voice terrifyingly calm. “Mr. Weber, you haven’t taken a single sip of that coffee.”

Hans froze. The tension in the air snapped taut.

Sophia met his eyes. “There’s no lip print on the rim, and the coffee hasn’t cooled—you didn’t come here for coffee. You came to test me.”

Hans was silent for several seconds. The amusement left his eyes, replaced by a cold professionalism. He set down the cup. “Miss Becker, the suitcase must be officially sealed. Procedure.”

Sophia took a notarized document from the counter drawer and unfolded it before him. The paper was smooth, without a single crease. “This is a certificate of inheritance issued by the Brussels Notary Office last year. The suitcase is in my name and protected under EU inheritance law.”

Hans scanned the document, tapping its embossed seal with one fingertip. The sound was crisp and indifferent. “Your father left it to you?”

Sophia nodded, lifting her chin slightly. “He arranged it three months before he died. Every formality was completed.”

Hans put away his papers, his expression gentle again, as though their confrontation had never happened. “A misunderstanding. The Association was merely conducting a routine inspection.” He handed her a business card, his fingertips brushing her palm. “If you remember anything, contact me anytime.”

Sophia accepted the card and watched him open his umbrella and vanish into the rain. The black canopy swayed beneath the downpour. Hans disappeared around the corner, swallowed by the heavy rain mist. Sophia lowered her gaze to the card—a line had been handwritten on the back in fine script: Saint-Michel Church, Wednesday, eight p.m.

She clenched the card until her knuckles whitened. Outside, the rain intensified, battering the glass like urgent drumbeats.

Across the street, a black sedan stood motionless in the shadows. Viktor aimed his surveillance camera at the entrance of the antique shop, its red indicator blinking in the rainy night. He pressed record. On-screen, Hans ducked into a silver Mercedes. The engine roared as it pulled away, taillights dragging two savage red streaks through the rain like torn wounds.

Viktor pulled up a photograph of the suitcase and enlarged the markings on its clasp—a string of numbers came clearly into view: 49.4°N, 1.1°W.

“We found it,” he murmured.

The sedan eased forward, tires rolling through the waterlogged street. Rain swallowed everything again.

Sophia pushed back into the shop, shutting the rain outside. Her fingers traced the writing on the card. Under the lamplight, the ink gleamed faintly, its strokes carrying an oddly untimely calm. She slipped the card inside her diary’s cover and opened the bloodstained page. Fresh ink was spreading across the blank space, the characters slender yet clear: “The key lies beneath Bayeux, under the altar, inside the reliquary.”

She closed her eyes. An exhibition layout surfaced in her memory—the Bayeux Tapestry, Normandy, 1944. The coordinates pointed near Omaha Beach. The first key was hidden in a reliquary beneath a church altar.

She shut the suitcase. Its clasp snapped closed. The numbers—49.4°N, 1.1°W—burned themselves into her mind. Outside, the rain showed no sign of easing. Streetlamp light shattered into golden flecks across the puddles. She pulled down the blinds. Through their narrow slats, the outline of the black sedan across the street still waited in shadow.

She dialed a number and hung up after three rings. Minutes later, her phone lit up with an unsigned message: “Confirmed. Viktor, field operative from the Dutch Security Service archives division. You are the target, not Hans.”

Sophia gripped the phone. Hans had been the probe; Viktor was the real eye watching her. She looked down at the diary. The ink was slowly fading along the page’s edges, as though urging her to leave.

She took an old pocket watch from her pocket. A faded photograph was tucked inside the cover—her father’s young face, with the spire of Bayeux Church behind him. Its hands had stopped at 8:17.

Wednesday, eight p.m. Saint-Michel Church.

She pocketed the watch, pushed open the rear door, and turned into the alley. She never looked back through the curtain of rain. Across the street, Viktor lowered his binoculars and murmured into his communicator. “She’s moving. Northbound. Follow her.”

The black sedan started again, headlights off, sliding into the night like a silent beast.

Sophia entered the subway station at the end of the alley and tapped through the gate. She did not buy a ticket to Saint-Michel. Instead, she bought one in the opposite direction—to Central Station. She knew that eye would not overlook a single move.

The train thundered into the station, drowning out footsteps. She boarded and took a window seat. Her own face reflected in the glass, her features cold and severe. The train began to move, tunnel lights flashing past in sequence.

On the surveillance feed, Viktor froze the instant she boarded. The faintest curve touched his lips. “Smart. But there is only one key, and we know where it’s buried.”

The screen went black.