AYLA – POV
The door didn't open.
It reminded me.
That was the first warning.
Kael touched the frame. His hand drew back like he'd pressed it to frozen flame. His breath misted. Not from the cold.
From memory unmaking itself.
He didn't speak. Neither did I because there are doors that are inviting, and doors that test.
This was the latter.
The wood was not wood. It looked like it—grain spiraled, blackened in swirls like something had been burned and reborn. But when I brushed my fingertips over it, sensation fled my fingers. Thought dulled. Names I knew—mine, Kael's, even Callen's—blurred at the edges.
It stole recognition.
Not violently.
Gently.
Which made it worse.
"I'll go first," Kael said.
"No."
"You're not walking into it alone."
"You have to remember me if I don't come back."
His face hardened. "Don't say that."
"It's not fear," I said. "It's a strategy."
He didn't like it but he didn't stop me.
