The next knock came in the middle of something almost normal.
El and my son were on the floor, surrounded by colored paper and blunt scissors, constructing what El insisted was “a fully functional dragon headdress” and what actually looked like a deranged paper octopus. Mara was on the couch knitting something lethal. I was at the tiny table, pretending to read and actually watching my boy’s shoulders—how they moved, how often they twitched at stray sounds.
The knock was rapid, impatient. Not a code I recognized.
Grace moved first. “Stay,” she said, opening the door just enough to block the view inside.
A familiar scent cut through the corridor air: ink, old paper, sharp nerves.
“Archivist?” Grace said, skeptical.
“It’s… sort of important,” a woman’s voice replied. Human, older, fray
