Wonder’s Legacy return to the gates of chocolate

«Look, Mom,» Ayana smiled. «She’s not winning. She’s just dancing. Isn’t that beautiful?»

Veronica was about to say something sharp but froze. She looked at the fragile chocolate figure and suddenly remembered how, as a child, she didn’t race anyone but simply spun on a lawn, tossing dandelions into the air, and it took her breath away more than any victory ever had. Silently, she took the figure from her daughter. The chocolate was melting in her hand from the warmth.

Mr. Miles Tecton was in his workshop, which more closely resembled a mad scientist’s laboratory. Screens were everywhere, LEDs blinked, fans hummed. The air smelled of ozone and soldering iron. His daughter Emma, a girl with freckles and lively eyes, was trying to fix an old alarm clock, but Miles paid her no attention. He was immersed in virtual reality, constructing what he considered a perfect world made of numbers and formulas.

Suddenly, all his monitors went wavy with black, and then a child’s drawing appeared on them, with clumsy letters spelling out: «REALITY ACTIVATES ON SHUTDOWN.»

«A glitch!» Miles yelled, tearing off his headset. «Where’s my tablet? Find the error, now!»

But his shouting died down. He saw that Emma wasn’t running around in a panic but was sitting on the floor, examining with interest a small, intricate machine made entirely… of hard candy. Gears, springs, screws – all were carved from transparent caramel of different colors. The machine clicked softly and smelled of mint and old books.

«Dad, look,» Emma said. «It’s alive.»

Miles, driven by engineering curiosity, bent down. He poked one of the gears. It turned, and a bubble flew out of a straw tube, a rainbow shimmering inside it. Miles, a man who explained everything with logic, suddenly understood that this candy machine operated by laws unknown to him. And it didn’t anger him; it fascinated him. He sat down on the floor next to his daughter, forgetting about the virtual world.

And so, magic, gentle and persistent, found each of them. And no one threw their strange gift away. They all hid them away, like keys to a door they had once slammed shut but now heard a quiet, beckoning chime from behind.

CHAPTER 4

THE DECISION TO TRUST

The week following the discovery of the crystal key flew by for Oliver in a single, ringing haze of anticipation. Every morning he woke up hoping today would be unlike yesterday, and the first thing he did was slide his hand under the pillow to feel the cold, perfectly smooth surface of the crystal. It lay there, wrapped in a soft scrap from an old shirt, and it seemed that even in the dark it emitted a faint, shimmering light, tinting the boy’s dreams golden. The air in their house, usually thick and still like cheap broth jelly, now seemed to Oliver to be filled with elusive scents. Sometimes he caught the smell of roasted almonds coming from the always-empty black stove, other times the delicate aroma of vanilla, as if someone had carried a freshly opened packet of expensive cookies down the corridor. He would freeze, catching these smells, and his heart would beat faster, heralding an imminent miracle.

The one who had changed the most, strangely enough, was Grandpa Julian. He didn’t just sit up in bed more often – it was as if he had returned from a long journey. His eyes, once cloudy and fixed on one spot, were now alive and attentive. He often looked out the fogged-up window, but his gaze was directed not at the wet roofs of neighboring houses, but somewhere far beyond, through time and space. His fingers, long and pale, often fidgeted with the edge of the woolen blanket, as if counting rosary beads of long-ago memories. Oliver caught his gaze – thoughtful, studying, full of a quiet sadness and hope simultaneously.

One such evening, as deep blue twilight gathered outside the window and the single lampshade the color of a faded eggshell cast its light in the room, Oliver couldn’t hold back any longer. He approached the bed, carefully holding his little bundle.

«Grandad,» he began, and his voice sounded louder than he expected, breaking the habitual silence. «We are going, aren’t we? Really, we’re going? He’s waiting. We can’t let him down.»

Julian slowly shifted his gaze from the window to his grandson. A sea of conflicting emotions swirled in his eyes.

«I’m afraid, my boy,» he exhaled, and his voice was like the rustle of pages in an old folio. «I am an old, dried-up leaf. What can I give to that world? What can I give to him, to Wonderingly? I will only bring the smell of medicine and dust. I was frightened then, Oliver. Frightened of happiness, as a blind man would be frightened by a sudden bright light. I saw all those wonders and realized I could never be worthy of them. And I ran away. Why go back now? To see my reflection in that chocolate river and be frightened of it all over again?»

«But you were the only one who made it through!» Oliver objected fervently, unwrapping the cloth. The crystal key lay on his palm, and in the dim lamplight, it shimmered with all the colors of the rainbow, casting intricate highlights on the walls. «He chose you! Not Augustus, not Veruca, but you! That means you were worthy! And this key… it’s alive! Can’t you feel it?»

At that moment, the door to the room creaked, as if reluctantly, and Mrs. Pye appeared on the threshold. She stood there, wiping her hands on her apron, her face a mix of habitual weariness and growing anxiety. Behind her, the thick, hearty smell of stewed cabbage hung in the corridor – the smell of their ordinary, unpretentious life.

«Are you at it again?» she said quietly, and her voice held not anger, but hopelessness. «Oliver, how long can this go on? Your grandfather needs peace, not fairy tales. Your head should be filled with schoolwork, not impossible dreams. Reality, son, isn’t in crystal keys. It’s in this.» She made a wide gesture with her hand, encompassing the cramped room, the sooty kitchen, and their entire modest existence. «It’s in fixing a leaky faucet and making ends meet until the next paycheck. Magic doesn’t exist. It ends when you grow up.»

«But, Mom, look!» Oliver was almost jumping with impatience, holding out his palm with the key so the lamplight fell directly on it. «It’s not a fairy tale! It’s real! Grandad saw it! He was there!»

Mrs. Pye glanced at the sparkling crystal. And for a moment, a shadow of the child she had once been flickered across her face. A shadow that believed in Santa Claus and that a domovoy lived behind the cupboard. But the shadow vanished immediately, washed away by a wave of adult responsibility.

«A piece of glass,» she said firmly, but her voice lacked conviction. «Pretty, yes. You found it somewhere. Throw it away, Oliver. You’ll cut yourself, get an infection. It’s not bad to dream, but it’s bad to live in dreams, forgetting the present.»

«Martha,» Julian spoke again, and this time his voice held unexpected strength. He raised himself higher, propping himself on his elbows, and his eyes burned. «It is not a piece of glass. And what I saw… was more real than this chair or this lamp. The grass there was made of green fondant, Martha, and it melted in your mouth. And a boat made of pink marzipan sailed across the lemonade river. And the smell… the smell was so intoxicating it made you dizzy with happiness. And I… I was weak. I didn’t understand then that I had been given the most precious gift – the belief in magic. And I traded it for… for this.» He nodded towards the room, at the gray walls. «Maybe this key isn’t a chance to go back. It’s a chance… to apologize. Not for me, no. To him. And for him.» Julian looked at Oliver, and his gaze held such tenderness and such pain that Martha’s breath caught in her throat.

Silence fell in the room, full of unspoken thoughts. The drip of water from a loosely closed tap in the kitchen was audible. Mrs. Pye looked at her father – at his suddenly animated, inspired face. She looked at her son – at his burning eyes, full of boundless faith. And her heart, encased in the armor of daily cares, developed a small crack.

«And what will you do?» she asked finally, her voice trembling. «Where will you go? What will you travel in? We don’t even have money for tickets to the next town, let alone to go looking for some fairy-tale factory.»

«There was no address in the message,» Oliver reminded her quietly. «Just „Your turn to lead.“»

And then Julian slowly, very slowly, stretched out his trembling, emaciated hand. His fingers closed around the crystal key. He took it from his grandson’s palm, and a strange thing happened – his hand stopped trembling. He squeezed the crystal, closed his eyes, and took a deep, deep breath.

And everyone present felt it at the same time. A breeze swept through the room. Not a cold draft from a crack in the window, but a light, warm, caressing breeze. It didn’t smell of cabbage or dust. It smelled of vanilla and hot chocolate, of rich pastries and marzipan. It smelled of hope.

«Perhaps an address isn’t needed,» Julian whispered, opening his eyes. They were filled with tears, but they were tears of relief. «Perhaps the road will find those who are truly ready to take the first step.»

Mrs. Pye looked at them – at father and son, united by a single secret. She saw the years falling from Julian’s shoulders, and how Oliver’s eyes shone brighter than any lamp. And she surrendered.

«Alright,» she exhaled, surprised to find a strange, poignant feeling of expectation in her soul instead of fear. «Alright. Go. Only…» her voice broke, «only be careful. Both of you. And… come back. You must come back.»

The decision was made. It hung in the air, sweet with scents from who-knows-where, like the promise of a new chapter. Oliver understood that his old life with gray walls and ticking clocks was behind him. Ahead, beyond the threshold of their home, a road was waiting, and he was absolutely sure it would lead them straight to the gates that smelled of childhood and wonders.

CHAPTER 5

A WHISPER FROM THE PAST IN THE MIRROR OF THE PRESENT

Meanwhile, in other corners of the city, where life was packaged in beautiful but stuffy wrappers of success, their own storms, invisible to the outside eye, were brewing. The magical messages, delivered in such a peculiar way, weren’t just lying idle. They became like pebbles dropped into the stagnant pond of daily routine, sending out ripples that disturbed the perfect but lifeless reflection.

In the empire of Mr. Gus Glutton, which spanned three floors and smelled of expensive coffee, roasted almonds, and power, the emperor himself was not having his best days. His office, located at the very top above the main hall of «The Sweet Kingdom,» was paneled in dark oak, and heavy velvet curtains protected him from the intrusive daylight. The air was thick with the aroma of cigars and truffle oil. Gus himself, sprawled in an armchair resembling a throne, was contemplating a plate of dessert just served to him – a multi-layered meringue with crème brûlée and gold leaf. It was the chef’s new creation, destined to be the hit of the season.

«Inedible,» he growled hoarsely, pushing the plate away so that the china clinked against the tabletop. «Dry, cloying, soulless. Throw it out. And the chef – with it. I don’t want to see him here tomorrow.»

His secretary, a pale young man, nodded obsequiously and hurried to remove the evidence of the culinary failure. Gus sighed heavily and reached for the desk drawer where, under a pile of contracts, lay that very same, warm-to-the-touch caramel berry. He took it out and placed it on his palm. The ruby light inside pulsed steadily, like a second, tiny heart. The smell of campfire and simple bread it emitted was so vivid it overpowered all the scents of his empire.

There was a knock on the office door.

«Come in!» Gus grunted, not hiding the berry.

His daughter, Sophie, stood on the threshold. She resembled her mother – delicate, with large eyes too serious for her age. In her hands, she carried a tray with a cup of tea.

«You haven’t drunk anything all day, Dad,» she said quietly. «I brought you some mint tea.»

Gus nodded, and his gaze fell on her hands – slender, pale fingers, one of them adorned with a homemade thread bracelet. His heart constricted with a sudden pain. When was the last time he had simply gone for a walk with her? Not to restaurants, not to official receptions, but just for a walk?

«Sit down, little fish,» he said, surprising himself with the softness in his voice.

Sophie looked at him in surprise but obediently perched on the edge of the leather sofa.

«Dad,» she began, looking into her cup. «I had a dream today. That we ended up in a huge garden where marmalades grew on the trees instead of apples. And you weren’t… well… the boss. You were just Dad. And we were running and laughing.»

Gus swallowed a lump in his throat. He clenched the caramel berry in his fist, and it responded with a wave of warmth.

«That’s… that’s not entirely a dream, Sophie,» he forced out with difficulty. «There was a place… a long time ago. Similar.»

«Mr. Wonder’s factory?» the girl whispered, and her eyes lit up with a fire Gus had never seen in them before. «Will you go there? Will you take me? Please! I’ll be so, so good! I won’t touch anything without asking!»

She looked at him with such hope that it took Gus’s breath away. He saw before him not the daughter of a successful restaurateur, but a little girl asking him for the simplest and most important miracle. He remembered his reflection in the chocolate river – the fat, grimy face of a greedy child. Fear gripped his throat. What if he disgraced himself again? What if she saw him not as a hero, but as a failure?

«Sophie… it’s not a place for… entertainment,» he tried to find an excuse. «It’s serious. Dangerous, even.»

«But you came back from there last time,» Sophie persisted. «And you’ll come back now. I’ll help you. We’ll be a team.»

Her words, simple and sincere, melted his defenses better than any fire. Gus looked at the portrait of himself – portly, self-satisfied – hanging on the wall. Then at the living, trembling face of his daughter. And he understood that his choice was predetermined.

«Alright,» he whispered. «We’ll go. But… be ready for anything.»

In Penelope Peck’s crystal palace, a stifling, polished-to-a-shine silence reigned. The air was saturated with the scent of hardened wax and expensive perfume. Penelope herself, clad in a silk robe the color of pink powder, was arranging her son’s new trophies on the shelves – cups for winning competitions she knew he never wanted to enter. Her movements were sharp, precise.

Leo sat by the window in the living room, flooded with the artificial light of the chandelier, watching the rain stream down the glass. He was holding an old book of fairy tales.

«Leo, how many times have I told you – don’t strain your eyes!» Penelope’s voice cracked like a whip. «You have a new tablet with a perfect screen for reading!»

«The pictures here are different, Mom,» the boy replied quietly, without turning. «They’re… warm.»

Penelope snorted and walked over to him. Her gaze fell on the book. It was the very one, with yellowed pages, that she used to read to him when he was very little and sick. On the table next to him lay that very same crystal drop of sugar. It shimmered in the lamplight, smelling of wet asphalt and childhood.

«Throw that trash away,» Penelope said, but without her usual firmness.

«It smells like you, Mom,» Leo looked up at her. There was no reproach in his eyes, only a deep, unchildlike sadness. «The real you. When you laughed and weren’t afraid to get your dress dirty.»

Penelope felt something tighten inside her. She remembered. She remembered running in the rain, how she, a respectable lady, had taken off her shoes and run barefoot through puddles with him, her little son.