The village appeared at dusk on the fifth day, exactly where Oren had promised. It was small—twenty houses, a well, a single arched bridge over a quiet stream—and it was happening twice.
In the first hour the villagers moved through ordinary evening tasks: drawing water, closing shutters, calling children indoors. In the second hour, overlaid and slightly transparent, the same villagers performed the same tasks again, just far enough out of step that conversations collided and hands passed through earlier versions of themselves. The effect was not violent. It was exhausting. People had learned to live inside the double hour by moving slowly and speaking only when both versions of their mouths agreed.
The party stopped at the bridge. A woman with a practical face and a spiral roughly chal
