Passing through the wooden door deposited them in a plaza that was almost the same and crucially different. The sky was a fraction darker. The colonnades now held faint figures moving in perfect, repeating loops of ordinary tasks—writing, walking, arguing, laughing—none of whom noticed the newcomers. The wooden door behind them led back to the previous plaza; the identical door ahead led onward.
Nima counted under her breath. “We have entered a nested sequence. Each door is a deeper layer of separation. The further we go, the less living time remains attached to the stored moments.”
A new hazard appeared almost immediately. The looping figures began to notice them. One by one they turned faces that were too complete, too finished, and began to speak in voices that carried no uncertainty.
