Seraph slept without dreams.
This was not unusual. Dreams belonged to minds that processed regret, anticipation, or fear in inefficient ways. His rest was quiet and complete, like a page left intentionally blank. When morning came, it did so gently, light easing through the window as though the sun itself were reluctant to intrude.
The city had changed.
Not in any way that could be measured.
The sounds outside were familiar—footsteps, voices, the clatter of shutters being opened—but their rhythm was subtly altered, like a song played a fraction too slowly. Seraph lay still, listening. He could feel the shape of the day before it arrived, a mild pressure behind his thoughts that suggested variance. Probability shifting. Outcomes softening around the edges.
Beside the washstand, the mirror reflected him faithfully. He studied his face for a moment longer than necessary. Both eyes were present. Both returned his gaze. And yet—
He turned slightly.
The reflection followed, but not perfectly. A breath too late. A kindness extended where none had been asked for.
Seraph looked away.
The maid knocked once before entering, already holding a tray. Tea, fresh bread, a small dish of honey. She had added fruit this time, sliced neatly and arranged with care. There was a faint mark beneath her left eye, as though she had not slept as deeply as she might have wished.
"Good morning, my lord," she said.
"Good morning," he replied, and meant it.
She set the tray down and began straightening the room, though there was little to correct. Her movements were precise, practiced. When she reached the corner where the shadow had been the night before, she hesitated—only for a moment—then smoothed the fabric of the hanging tapestry as if that were what she had intended all along.
"It seems we are expected today," she said lightly.
Seraph poured tea. Steam curled upward, dissipating too quickly. "By whom?"
She adjusted the window latch. "The city, perhaps."
He considered that. Cities did expect things. They leaned into patterns, grew fond of repetition. The trouble began when something interrupted those expectations without explanation.
Outside, a bell rang. Three times, unevenly spaced.
"That bell rang twice yesterday," the maid continued, still not looking at him. "Today it rang three times."
"Yes," Seraph said. "I noticed."
She went still.
That, too, was unusual.
When they left the inn, the square was already full. A small crowd had gathered near the fountain, drawn not by spectacle but by curiosity that had nowhere else to go. At the center stood a man arguing loudly with no one in particular, his voice rising and falling as though he were pleading with the air.
"I locked it," he was saying. "I know I did. I've locked it every night for twenty years."
Seraph stopped at the edge of the crowd.
The man's hands shook. His eyes darted from face to face, searching for recognition, confirmation, absolution. "There was no door," he insisted. "Not there. Not ever."
The crowd murmured sympathetically. Someone clucked their tongue. Another offered an arm, which the man did not take.
"Where does it lead?" a woman asked gently.
The man swallowed. "I don't know. I didn't open it."
Seraph felt the pressure again. Stronger this time.
"Show us," someone said.
The man laughed—a brittle sound that broke too quickly. "I'm not going near it."
Seraph stepped forward.
The crowd parted without realizing they had done so.
"May I?" Seraph asked, his voice calm, carrying just far enough.
The man turned, eyes landing on him with immediate relief. "You—yes. You understand. You can see it, can't you?"
Seraph smiled, apologetic. "I see many things."
They walked together down a narrow street where the buildings leaned close, stone brushing stone. The man stopped before a blank wall between a tailor's shop and a boarded-up apothecary. He pointed with a trembling finger.
"There," he said. "Right there."
There was nothing.
No seam. No shadow. No wrongness that the eye could easily grasp.
The crowd pressed closer behind them, breath held collectively.
Seraph studied the wall. He placed one gloved hand against the stone. It was cool, solid, unremarkable.
The maid stood a few steps back, her hands folded. Her ears twitched once, betraying tension she would not voice.
Seraph leaned in, as though listening.
The wall listened back.
That was new.
He straightened. "You're right," he said gently. "There is no door here."
The man sagged with relief, laughter bubbling up through his fear. "I told them. I told them I wasn't mad."
Seraph turned to the crowd. "Sometimes the mind fills gaps where certainty should be," he said kindly. "It passes."
The words settled. The pressure eased. One by one, the people dispersed, embarrassment replacing concern. The man thanked Seraph profusely before hurrying away, shoulders lighter than they had been moments before.
When the street was empty again, Seraph remained.
"So it wasn't real," the maid said quietly.
"No," Seraph replied. Then, after a pause, "It was premature."
They returned to the inn in silence.
That afternoon, Seraph sat by the window, watching the square. People moved through it as they always had, unaware of the near miss. He felt something else now, faint but persistent—like the sensation of being gently counted.
He lifted his cup of tea.
In the reflection on its dark surface, a door flickered briefly into view.
Not behind him.
Not ahead.
But somewhere just out of alignment, waiting for the moment when being seen would no longer be optional.
Seraph drank, unhurried.
Somewhere beyond the world's edges, something took note of the delay.