Mira climbs the stairs, each step groaning softly under her weight. The amber light beneath the door doesn't waver. She raises her fist and knocks — three short raps that echo louder than she intended. A pause. Then a voice, low and deliberate: "Come in, then." The door swings open before she can reach for the handle. The figure filling the frame is tall and lean, dressed in a layered oilcloth coat dark with age, a wide-brimmed hat keeping their face half in shadow. Silver hair, cropped close. They look at Mira the way someone looks at a letter they have been expecting but hoped would never arrive. "You touched the word on the oak," they say — not a question. Behind them, papers spread across a long workbench in careful rows, covered in the same strange lettering as the scrap in her pocket. At the centre of it all, something small glows amber, steady and warm.