Ryan woke to the sound of wind chimes.
They were new—Elena had hung them the day before, their silver tubes catching the morning light. But the sound they made was wrong. Too deep. Too resonant. Like a voice calling from far away.
He sat up in bed. The cottage was quiet, but the chimes continued their strange song. He walked to the window.
Mira was already in the garden, her silver eyes fixed on the silver door. The fragments were gathered around her, their red lights flickering nervously.
"Dada," she said without turning. "The door is speaking."
Ryan crossed the garden. "Speaking?"
"The void. It's not empty anymore. It's filled with something. And that something wants to talk."
Ryan pressed his hand against the door's frame. The silver light pulsed—not warm, not cold. Something in
