Grandpa Hardman sat in his gaming chair and could not stand up. His brown beard spilled over the armrests and pooled on the dirt, heavy as wet rope. A hundred years of growing. A hundred years of aching bones. He gripped his cane, pulled hard, and went nowhere. The metal walls of the bunker rose around him on three sides. People had built it slowly, year by year, after it became clear he would not be moving. A roof. A door. A sealed front to keep the wind off. His chair sat dead center, anchored by the weight of his own face. Hardman pulled the small notebook from his coat pocket. One page. One name, written in shaky ink by the only person who had ever known. That person was gone now. The name was all he had left, and he could not walk a single step toward it. Small feet padded up to the open bunker door. Baby Daniel stood there in his diaper, bottle in hand, staring. "Why you stuck?" the baby asked. Hardman tapped the beard with his cane. "Too heavy, little one." Daniel's eyes went huge. "Me help. Me get Daddy." The baby ran. Minutes later Prince Danny ducked through the door, sword at his hip. He looked at the beard. He looked at the old man. "We cut it," Danny said. Hardman hesitated. Then he gave one slow nod. The blade came down clean. The beard fell away in a great brown heap, and Hardman rose for the first time in longer than he could count. His bones still ached. The curse still held. But his legs worked, and the notebook was in his pocket, and the name was waiting.

Hardman stepped out of the bunker for the first time in a hundred years. The sun hit his bald head. His cane sank into the dirt. A few paces from the door sat an old wooden bench, soft and gray with age. He lowered himself onto it and pulled the notebook from his coat. One name. No town. No trade. No face. He stared at the shaky ink until the letters blurred. A name alone was nothing. He could walk in any direction and walk forever. Small feet thumped up the path. Baby Daniel climbed onto the bench beside him, bottle in hand. "You sad?" the baby asked. Hardman tapped the page. "Don't know where to start, little one." Daniel frowned hard. "Use a looky-glass. Daddy got one." Prince Danny came soon after, the lens already in his hand. The glass shimmered, runes glowing along its rim. "Found it in the treasure rooms," Danny said. "It reads what plain eyes miss." He passed it down. "Hold it over the name." Hardman lifted the lens above the page. The ink moved. New lines bloomed under the glass — faint marks beside the name, a small drawn shape of a chest with iron bands, and a single word beneath: hidden. A place. A hiding place belonging to a man who had hidden for a very long time. Hardman closed the notebook. His bones still ached. But now he had a direction. He stood up from the bench, leaned on his cane, and took his first true step toward the name.