I knew I was crossing a dangerous line. One mistake could cost me everything. But turning back was impossible.

I cleaned my tweezers, warmed the oil, let a few drops fall. Slowly. Patiently. Then I pulled.
A millimeter. Another. And suddenly, with a faint sticky sound, the obstruction gave way.

On the tissue lay a small round blue Lego piece, followed by a compact wad of cotton — lodged there for years.

Lucien suddenly sat upright. His eyes widened.

The hallway clock chimed.