The station clock had stopped at 3:17, but every platform sign still insisted the night was running on time.
Mara kept one hand on the brass key in her coat pocket and the other on the last page of the The warning bell answered from beneath the water. The river bell answered from below the tide.
If the river door opened before dawn, she would have one chance to decide which version of the city survived.
Mist clung to the pilings like old secrets. Somewhere below, the tide pressed against stone, patient and sure.
Mara breathed in, feeling the weight of the key—cold, precise, final. The city had forgotten its promises before. But doors don’t lie. They only open, or they don’t.
She stepped closer to the archway and listened.
1,260 / 1,800 words