The set was carved from smooth, cold obsidian, housed in a velvet-lined rosewood box. The shopkeeper, a man whose skin looked like crumpled parchment, insisted on a strange price: "One secret for the set." Arthur whispered a confession he’d never told anyone, took the box, and left.

In a dusty antique shop in New Orleans, Arthur didn't just "buy domino tiles"—he bought a mystery.

When he finally flicked the first tile, the sound wasn't the usual plastic clack . It was the sound of a door locking. Then a window sliding shut. As the trail of black stones fell, the lights in his house flickered and died.