Rhys paused just long enough to read the number etched into the key's tag, then moved toward the matching door. The boards beneath his feet sounded different from those below—less traffic, less history layered into each step. The quiet here wasn't deeper, just narrower, shaped for rest rather than gathering.
Caria walked beside him, close enough that their shoulders nearly brushed. Not seeking contact, not avoiding it—simply aligned. Her gaze moved once along the corridor, taking in the closed doors, the single lamp at the far end, the window that showed only darkness beyond the glass.
Puddle followed, its form drawing slightly inward again as the space tightened. It didn't resist the enclosure. It adjusted to it, carrying its calm forward unchanged.
At the door, Rhys slid the key into the lock. It turned with a soft, decisive click, a sound that felt final in the way good things sometimes did. He opened the door and stepped aside, letting Caria enter first.
