Ryan's fingers trembled as he touched the crib railing.
The handprint was still warm—not burning, but alive. Silver light pulsed faintly beneath the surface, like a heartbeat trapped in metal. Mira slept on, oblivious, her tiny chest rising and falling.
He pulled his hand back. The print remained.
"Elena." His voice was tight. "Wake up."
Elena stirred, then sat up quickly when she saw his face. "What's wrong?"
Ryan pointed at the crib. "Look."
She crossed the room in two steps. Her breath caught when she saw the print. "Is that—"
"Mira's hand. It's silver. Like the anchor."
Elena reached for the print, but Ryan grabbed her wrist. "Don't touch it."
"It's just a mark."
"It's a door."
---
Thorne arrived at dawn.
She'd driven through the night after Ryan's call, her wheelchair str
