A bright light shines from my parents’ room, casting an eerie glow through the window. It’s a scene that has become all too familiar to me over the years, one that sparks a mix of curiosity and fear. This isn’t just any light; it’s the beacon of a game that has been passed down through generations, a game that promises to reveal secrets hidden within the walls of our home.
The game, known as “The Light from My Parents’ Room,” is a family tradition that has been whispered about in hushed tones. It’s said that those who dare to play must enter the room at midnight, when the light is at its brightest. The game is simple yet mysterious: the player must find a hidden object within the room, an object that holds the key to unlocking a family secret. But the object is not easy to find, and those who fail to complete the game face a fate worse than death.
My curiosity was piqued when I first heard about the game. I was a child then, and the thought of uncovering a family secret was thrilling. My parents, who had always been tight-lipped about the game, seemed to take delight in watching me attempt to solve the riddle. They would sit in the living room, a safe distance away, their eyes gleaming with anticipation as I ventured into the room.
The first time I played, I was ten years old. I crept into my parents’ room, my heart pounding with excitement and fear. The room was dark, save for the bright light emanating from the corner. I began to search, my fingers brushing against old furniture and dusty trinkets. Hours passed, and I was no closer to finding the hidden object. Frustrated, I gave up and returned to the living room, where my parents greeted me with knowing smiles.
As the years went by, I continued to play the game, each time with a renewed sense of determination. The light from my parents’ room became a symbol of my quest for knowledge, a reminder of the secrets that lay hidden within our home. Each time I entered the room, I felt a sense of connection to my ancestors, as if I were walking in their footsteps.
One night, when I was twenty-five, I decided to play the game one last time. This time, I was prepared. I had studied the room, memorizing every nook and cranny. As I entered the room, the bright light seemed to pulse with energy, guiding me towards the hidden object. My fingers brushed against a loose floorboard, and I pulled it up, revealing a small, ornate box. Inside the box was a letter, written in my great-grandmother’s handwriting. It spoke of a family secret, one that had been kept hidden for generations.
As I read the letter, I realized that the game was more than just a riddle; it was a connection to my past, a way to understand the people who came before me. The bright light from my parents’ room had been a beacon, leading me to a truth that had been long forgotten. And as I closed the box, I knew that the game would continue, passed down to the next generation, a reminder of the power of family and the secrets that bind us together.
