It had been five years since the Shah siblings had all stood together under one roof. The old family house on Wren Hill, wrapped in vines and whispers of forgotten laughter, had called them back—not with a phone call, but through a letter none of them could explain receiving.
Amir, the eldest, arrived first—his blazer still creased from a corporate meeting he left unfinished. He had grown stern over the years, like a soldier of success. Zoya, the second, showed up with a paintbrush in her pocket and colors on her jeans, her fingers stained with ideas she hadn’t yet turned into art. Then came Haris, the third, whose voice had once filled the house with song, but now preferred silence over attention. And lastly, Mina, the youngest—wide-eyed, curious, and still holding onto the magic the rest had grown out of.
The letter had only said one thing:
“Come back to the place where stories were born.”
That night, as the four wandered through creaking floorboards and dusty memories, they found the attic door slightly ajar. It had always been locked. As children, they had made up tales about what was hidden there—treasure maps, secret journals, maybe even ghosts. But no one had ever dared to go in.
Now, with the door open, they climbed the narrow staircase together. Inside, they found a single wooden chest. On top sat four objects: a compass, a paintbrush, a harmonica, and a notebook.
Mina picked up the compass. “It still works,” she whispered, watching the needle spin before settling north. Zoya stared at the paintbrush—identical to the one she had carried for years. Haris turned the harmonica in his hand and blew a quiet note, and Amir flipped through the notebook filled with pages they had once written together as children—stories of kingdoms, creatures, and heroes that resembled themselves.
Suddenly, the room began to shimmer. The walls melted into forests and castles, oceans and stars. The house wasn’t just a house—it was a portal to their childhood dreams, a place where their stories had once created entire worlds.
And now, it wanted them to write again.
The siblings looked at each other—not as strangers, but as co-creators. The compass would guide them. The brush would paint the scenes. The harmonica would provide the soundtrack. And the notebook? It would hold everything together.
They weren’t just siblings anymore.
They were a team of storytellers.
And this time, their story had only just begun.