The hour belonged to chairs complaining and doors studying for their next argument. Thomas woke inside it with the steady certainty that a room he didn't own had borrowed itself into place at the foot of his bed.
It looked like through-glass: a narrow corridor of light with edges too tidy for any honest house. The air on its threshold felt ironed.
He stood, small and unimpressive, and stepped in.
The new floor did not squeak. Floors in trials prefer to judge you by the squeaks inside your joints. The walls did not breathe. Walls in trials are experts at holding theirs.
A first pane arrived with better posture than usual.
[SEQ] Trial — Umbral Calibration
[SEQ] Objective: Cross the mirror corridor without disturbing echoes.
[SEQ] Reward: Confluence rank-up (Black → Grade II); Gate preview.
[SEQ] Penalty: Noise tax (temporary debuffs).
The corridor offered him a picture: himself, taller by a rumor, moving exactly as he intended to learn—Breath-Then-Step-Then-Still. He watched that self with the courtesy one owes a dangerous animal wearing your face.
He set breath first, a metronome for everything that wanted to hurry. In on a count that matched the lamp's faint wick-sway. Out on a count that matched Patricia's slow turn of a page in the other room. Rhythm made the place less proud.
The corridor's problems declared themselves in honest order. A draft where no window could be, tugging with the greed of a child; a black angle on the floor masquerading as safe footing; a reflection of him that moved not quite when he did.
He answered them like screws sorted into jars. Wind: weight, not speed. Shadow: line, not foot. Reflection: refusal—no mirror has jurisdiction here.
Then the trial tried flattery. The passage widened by the width of a compliment; the far door looked attainable with a single clean dash. He disliked free lunches because they hide taxes. He did not dash. He placed his foot where the wind admitted it had no opinion and let the widened part fold back in on itself with the sulky dignity of a trick spotted too soon.
He rounded a bend. The light sharpened, like someone had polished it with attention. A faint chime—his own heel-lift, betrayed by ego—nearly charged him a fee. He kept the head still on the neck, a balanced stone on a stack, and paid nothing.
Halfway, the corridor set a trap made of memory. A voice like his mother's said his name the way she did when there was sugar and forgiveness. He did not turn. Trials prefer that you look back. He preferred to work for the future.
At the last span stood a second self—taller not by age but by claim. It lifted a hand in perfect synchronization and dared him to enjoy the twinship. He dropped his own hand. The mirror kept its up and touched the pane of the world it had no right to touch. It flickered the way counterfeit coins do when they meet real purchase and went shy.
He stepped forward—and the floor beneath the final strip of light decided it wanted to be a question rather than an answer. The angle of shadow argued "hole." The breath in his chest asked for speed.
He answered both with the arithmetic he trusted: Breath. Then Step.
The corridor dimmed its eyelashes. He did not let it blink for him.
(…to be continued)