Chapter 1 — Three Missing Notes

Every morning while brewing tea in the kitchen, Wong Nam hummed to himself. The tune was always the same. It rose and fell at an unhurried pace, and right near the end came three notes that climbed one by one like footsteps going up a staircase.

Except Wong Nam never hummed those final three notes. Every single morning, he stopped right before them.

“Grandpa forgot how the ending goes,” he would say whenever Iota asked.

That afternoon Wong Nam came home carrying a small music box. Its case was made of wood with a clear lid on top, and a small metal key stuck out from the side for winding.

“Grandpa found this in a secondhand shop,” Wong Nam said. “Listen to the tune it plays.”

Iota turned the little key. One full turn. Then a second turn.

Beneath the clear lid, a metal cylinder began to revolve. Its surface was covered in tiny raised bumps, like the pebbled skin of an orange. Right beside the cylinder sat a row of thin metal teeth lined up like the teeth of a comb. Each time a tiny bump rolled past, it plucked one metal tooth, and a clear little note rang out.

Iota’s eyes went wide. It was Grandpa’s tune! The exact song he hummed every morning by the teapot.

She leaned in, waiting for the final three notes. At last she was going to hear how the song ended.

Before the first of those three climbing notes could sound, the cylinder slowed down. One short note plinked out, and the music box went still.

“Hey! The song is not finished yet.”

Iota leaned her ear close to the clear lid. Silence. The metal cylinder was no longer turning.

“Is it broken?”

“It was playing a moment ago,” Wong Nam said. “Look inside and see what stopped.”

“The cylinder stopped turning,” Iota said. “So nothing is plucking the metal teeth anymore.” She touched the winding key on the side of the wooden case. “Yet I turned this key twice earlier. Where did the turns from my hand go?”

“Inside the box sits a spring,” Wong Nam said. “A long strip of metal coiled up tight like a roll of gift ribbon. When you turn the key, the coil winds tighter.”

Iota turned the key just a fraction, testing it carefully. The farther she turned it, the stiffer it felt against her fingers, as though something inside the box were pushing back.

“The spring stores up the strength from my hand,” Iota said.

“That is right. Then the spring slowly uncoils again, and as it uncoils, it turns the cylinder.” Wong Nam tapped the clear lid lightly with one fingertip. “That ability to make something move or make a sound is what people who study physics call energy.”

“Energy,” Iota repeated. She liked the sound of the word.

“Earlier you only wound the key twice,” Wong Nam said. “That was enough energy to start the tune, not enough to carry it all the way to the end.”

Iota reached for the key again, ready to wind it plenty of turns so she could finally hear those last three notes. Gently, Wong Nam laid his palm over the key.

“Hold on a moment. Before we put new energy in, try to figure out what happened to the energy we just used. Where did it go?”

Iota stared down at the silent wooden box. A minute ago its melody had filled the living room. Now there was nothing at all.

Where had the energy gone?