Nestled in the folds of the northeast hills, where the mist lingers just a little longer in the mornings and the lamplight glows a little warmer at dusk, sat the town of Maple Hollow. With its cobblestone streets and ivy-covered walls, the town looked as though it had been plucked from the pages of a forgotten fairy tale. Wrought-iron signs creaked gently above narrow shops, and stories whispered from every chimney, alley, and rain-worn statue.

Maple Hollow was old; older than its maps, older even than the great oak tree that grew in the center square with roots like knotted ropes and bark that bore the names of long-gone lovers and dreamers. Centuries ago, it had been home to inventors, explorers, and secret-keepers. Some claimed there were hidden tunnels beneath the streets. Others spoke of lost inventions tucked away when progress was feared more than celebrated. Most people dismissed those stories with a smile. But not Ella and Max.

It was a late autumn afternoon when their story truly began. The air was crisp, and the maple leaves skittered down the sidewalks like they were trying to outrun the wind. The librarian, Miss Penelope Brant, who had once been young but had always worn cardigans, was fretting about the annual Founder's Day exhibit. The town was celebrating its 300th birthday, and she needed volunteers to help clean out the attic of the Maple Hollow Library, the oldest building in town. She intended to use it as storage to make room for a collection of old historical paintings she wanted to display on the main library floor. Naturally, Ella and Max volunteered.

The attic was usually off-limits, sealed with a dusty padlock and warnings about "creaky boards and biting dust." Which, of course, made it impossible to resist. So, after school, with sleeves rolled up and flashlights in hand, the two climbed the narrow spiral staircase behind the poetry section. The door creaked open with the groan of a thousand unwritten stories. Inside, the attic smelled of ink and mothballs and something else, like time itself had been bottled and stored in boxes. Dust motes danced in golden beams from the high, round window.

And there, leaning crookedly against a shelf of forgotten atlases, was a portrait neither of them had ever seen before. It was of a man, stern-eyed and unsmiling, in a deep red velvet coat, his hand resting on what looked like a strange mechanical device. The canvas was cracked, the frame chipped. But there was something about the man's eyes that made Ella stop. They didn't feel like they were painted. They felt like they were watching. "Creepy" Max muttered, crouching to shine his flashlight across the bottom corner of the frame. The brass plaque was too dusty to read, and when he tried to wipe it clean, the whole portrait shivered, ever so slightly, like a door caught in a draft......

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