The path he’d taken to avoid the stairs narrowed as he walked. It didn’t feel safer—just less certain.

  The city remained quiet, but not dead. It breathed. And in its stillness, it listened.

  Neno turned a corner and found himself in a long corridor—too narrow to be a true street, too open to be a hallway. The walls leaned in just enough to suggest pressure.

  The Gospel page in his hand was calm. Silent.

  That should have comforted him.

  It didn’t.

  Somewhere behind him: a soft tap.

  He stopped.

  Another tap, closer. Like footsteps. Not hurried. Not hostile. Just… there.

  He turned. Nothing.

  Only the path he had just walked—though he could no longer see where it had begun.

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  He started walking again. Faster.

  Tap. Tap. Tap.

  Not following. Not chasing. Matching.

  The city curved ahead. He hadn’t seen it curve before, but now it did. A gentle bend, like the curl of a finger.

  He took it.

  And found a door.

  It stood alone in the wall, made of black wood without handle or hinges. It should not have been able to open.

  But it did.

  It had never opened.

  It had only decided to let him through.

  Without thinking, he stepped inside.

  The room beyond was wrong.

  The walls bent upward into shadows. The ceiling drifted too far away, as if the room stretched into memory rather than space.

  Bookshelves lined the walls—empty. Every shelf coated in a thin layer of ash.

  Except one.

  One book sat alone in the center shelf.

  The moment his eyes landed on it, its pages began to turn.

  Not with wind. There was no wind here.

  They turned because he had looked.

  Words bloomed across the parchment as if being written now. As if the book was recording what he was doing, moment by moment.

  This wasn’t the Gospel.

  This one had no voice. Only reflection.

  Neno stepped closer. The book wrote:

  “He approaches the shelf. He reads the words not meant for him.”

  His mouth went dry.

  The words continued:

  “He does not hear the door close behind him.”

  He turned.

  The door was gone.

  So was the wall.

  So was the room.

  He stood in the open street again. The book gone. The shelves gone.

  The Gospel page in his hand bled anew.

  “Do not seek what writes you. It already has.”