I tried Mom's birthdate first. Then a few combinations I thought she might have used. Every time, the keypad blinked red.
I frowned, rubbing dust off my eyes. There was something... a memory tugging at me. Mom writing something on a notepad, tapping her pen, telling me—half distracted, half teasing—
"Don't forget."
And I never did. Those numbers had been etched into my mind, even after everything.
Hands trembling, I typed them in.
The keypad light flicked from red to green.
A soft click echoed from inside the vault.
"It's open," Aldric whispered.
I nodded, pushing the door. A thin cloud of white, chilling vapor drifted out as the interior lights flickered on. Inside, lined neatly on a metal tray, were several small finger-sized vials filled with glowing red liquid.
The antidote.
