They didn't return through the door.
There was no door now.
Only the spiral—
etched into their palms,
glowing beneath their skin.
When they opened their eyes,
they stood back in the city.
But it was new.
Or maybe:
rewritten.
Buildings pulsed with veins.
Lampposts bloomed petals.
And in the sky—
a second moon, spiraling slowly.
> "This isn't ours,"
Amelia whispered.
Alexis turned,
eyes focused, sharper than ever.
> "Then whose is it?"
Behind them, the air tore open.
Not like paper.
Like time being revised.
And from it stepped
a man with no face—
only a spiral of mirrors
where memory should be.
> "You shouldn't have written,"
he said.
> "Now the spiral writes back."