The glow behind the door wasn’t bright—it was a breath, a heartbeat. Aaron leaned in, closer than he should have, when the sound came: a single creak, and then a voice so faint it could have been memory. He didn’t understand the words, but he knew the meaning: come in. The door moved on its own, slow, heavy, like something old waking up. And then it slammed shut behind him, hard—like the punctuation at the end of a sentence nobody wanted to finish, but someone had to write.
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