It had always sat atop the mantelpiece, amongst their grandfathers’ other knick-knacks. It felt foreign to hold the ornate hourglass in his hands and he watched as it shook minutely. He placed the hourglass back down onto his desk and picked up the closed envelope that had been handed to him alongside the antique. It took a few attempts for him to open the envelope as the letter opener kept missing its mark as he went to run it across the closed seam. With the envelope finally broken he took another deep breath before opening up the thick stationary he found inside. In his grandfathers cursive handwriting he saw the words: Jackson, my dear boy, I hope this letter finds you well. Or as well as one can expect when it would seem I am no longer of this world. Death is a strange phenomenon but one that claims us all in the end. I wish for you to remember me fondly and not to dwell on the fact that I am no longer beside you; for I will always be with you. Before receiving this letter you will have learned that I have left an eighth of my estate to you and each of your siblings in kind. But to you, my dear boy, I also leave my most prized possession. The Hourglass of Ignis Fatuus. I ask that you keep it close as I have done. I ask that you keep it safe. Believe me, dear boy, it is worth it. Your Grandfather, Marcus Blight Jackson stared down at the words written on the stationary that weighed heavily in his hands. His eyebrows drawn together as he tried to make sense of the importance his grandfather appeared to place on what was, for all intents and purposes, a simple hourglass. He glanced over the cursive script again before placing the paper down and drawing the hourglass closer again. “The Hourglass of Ignis Fatuus,” he said softly, stroking a reverent finger down its gilded frame. He flipped the antique and watched as the powdered marble inside began to fall. “Ignis Fatuus,” he repeated, trying to make sense of the Latin words, his eyes still watching the marble shift through the narrow neck of the glass. A soft glow started to emanate from the hourglass and Jackson rubbed his eyes thinking they were playing tricks on him. He saw a small movement out of the corner of his eye but couldn’t bring himself to look away from the hourglass itself. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” A soft baritone spoke up. A baritone much like his own. It took Jackson a moment to realise why he recognised that voice. He gasped as he finally drew his eyes away from the falling powder to the figure of his grandfather encased in the same soft blue light he could have sworn he saw on the hourglass moments earlier. The ghostly figure, with his grandfathers form, smiled down at him. “Hello, my dear boy,” he said. “Would you like to hear a story?”