I didn't sleep.
Every time I closed my eyes, the darkness behind them felt crowded, as if something waited just beyond the edge of thought. So I lay there instead, staring at the ceiling, counting breaths that never quite felt like they belonged to me.
In.
Out.
Between them—something lingered.
Morning arrived without ceremony. No dreams bleeding into daylight, no sudden revelations. Just pale light filtering through the curtains and the distant hum of the city waking up. If not for the note still folded on my table, I might have convinced myself last night had been nothing more than exhaustion.
You returned too smoothly.
I left it there on purpose. Proof. An anchor.
In the bathroom mirror, I studied my reflection carefully. It mirrored me perfectly—no delayed movements, no subtle smirk. I raised a hand. It raised one too. I leaned closer, searching for depth that shouldn't exist.
"Behave," I muttered.
The reflection didn't answer.
On my way out, I hesitated at the door. The threshold felt heavier today, like stepping across it required permission. I crossed anyway. Nothing happened.
That unsettled me more than if something had.
Outside, the city moved with practiced rhythm. Vendors setting up stalls. Office workers clutching coffee. The air smelled faintly of rain, though the sky was clear. I walked without a destination, letting the crowd carry me, testing how invisible I could be.
The answer was: very.
No one bumped into me. No one looked twice. It was as if the city had adjusted around my presence, smoothing edges so I fit perfectly into its patterns. Too perfectly.
At a small park wedged between buildings, I sat on a damp bench and watched pigeons argue over crumbs. A child laughed nearby. Somewhere, music played faintly through open windows.
Normal again.
I closed my eyes.
For just a second.
The world shifted.
Not visibly—there were no flashing lights or bending buildings. Instead, everything felt… thinner. Sounds dulled. The air cooled. I sensed a space opening, not around me, but within me. Like holding my breath without realizing it.
And in that space, a voice spoke—not aloud, not in my head.
You're learning to pause.
My eyes snapped open.
EG stood across the park path, hands in his pockets, looking painfully ordinary. No dramatic entrance. No warning. Just there, as if he had always been part of the scenery.
"You're following me," I said.
"I'm observing," he corrected. "There's a difference."
I stood. "Someone left a message at my door."
"I know."
"That's not comforting."
"It shouldn't be."
His gaze drifted to the people around us. "You felt it, didn't you? The city adjusting."
"Yes," I said. "Like I don't cast friction anymore."
EG nodded. "That's the danger."
"Of what?"
"Becoming a gap," he said simply.
I frowned. "You're going to have to explain that."
"You already experienced it," he replied. "Between breaths. Between thoughts. That moment where nothing pushes back."
A chill ran through me. "That space feels… wrong."
"It's powerful," EG said. "And addictive. The mirror uses it. So does the tower."
"And the reflection?"
He didn't answer immediately.
"That one," he said at last, "learns fastest."
The pearl pulsed beneath my clothes, responding to his words. I pressed a hand against it. "So what am I supposed to do? Pretend harder?"
"No," EG said. "You're supposed to resist smoothing."
"Meaning?"
"Make mistakes. Hesitate. Be seen."
"That sounds reckless."
"It's survival."
A sudden pressure built behind my eyes. Images flickered—crowded streets freezing mid-step, faces turning blank, reflections stepping out of glass. I gasped, the sensation snapping like a broken thread.
EG was suddenly closer, his voice firm. "Breathe."
I did.
The pressure eased.
"Good," he said quietly. "You felt how easily it opens now."
I swallowed. "I didn't choose that."
"No," he agreed. "But it chose you again."
A sharp sound cut through the air—a crack, like glass under stress. We both turned.
Across the park, a bus shelter's glass wall rippled, its reflection lagging just a fraction too long. No one else noticed. They never did.
EG's expression darkened. "It's testing boundaries."
"What happens if it succeeds?"
"The city stops pretending," he said.
The ripple vanished. The glass returned to normal.
I exhaled shakily. "So what's the next step?"
EG met my eyes. "You learn to control the pause."
"And if I fail?"
A distant rumble of thunder answered for him.
"You won't," he said. "Not yet."
As he turned to leave, I called after him. "That message—who left it?"
He paused, just long enough.
"Someone who remembers you before the rain," he said. "And who doesn't like what you're becoming."
Then he was gone, absorbed back into the city as if he had never been there at all.
I sat back down, heart racing, watching the space between passing moments.
For the first time, I realized the most dangerous thing about the seam wasn't crossing it—
It was learning how easily the world let me slip through without resistance.