Mira folds the receipt and tucks it against her palm, then crosses the hallway toward the door. It stands ajar by only an inch, exhaling a faint smell of old paper and pine resin — like a library that has been locked for a century. She pushes it open with her fingertips. Beyond is a narrow staircase she has never seen before, its steps carved from dark wood worn smooth by countless feet, though she has lived here alone for three years. A pale light pulses from somewhere below, rhythmic as breathing. On the first step lies a single crow feather, as though placed there deliberately. Mira glances back at the candle in her room — still guttering — then down at the feather. The word on the receipt shifts again beneath her fingers, and for just a moment she is certain it has become two words instead of one.