They continued down the corridor in perfectly engineered silence—polished floors, motion-sensitive lights, and that soft scent of aged paper and expensive wood that only came from a wing untouched by casual visitors.
Alistair followed, several steps behind, like a man walking through a mild fever dream. His mouth opened twice. Nothing came out.
Trevor said nothing.
Lucas definitely noticed.
Windstone, as always, walked like he had seen worse and was waiting for the next installment.
They stepped into a long gallery-style space, lined with wall-length windows and a private collection of books that hadn't been disturbed in years. The air was still. Not dusty—Windstone would never allow that—but heavy. Preserved.
Alistair stopped just inside, still trailing behind like he hadn't fully re-entered reality. "You two keep saying things like they're normal."
Lucas trailed a finger along the edge of a shelf, expression unreadable. "They are. For us."
