They took the narrow back alleys toward the last recording point. The walls were tagged with graffiti—three identical crowns in different places, paint still dripping. The exact same crown. The exact same drip.

A dog outside a tailor’s shop paced the same short stretch of sidewalk, nose to the ground. Every time it reached a particular spot, it sniffed like something should have changed. It never did.

The world felt stuck in a loop.

When they reached the cul-de-sac, it was quieter than it had any right to be. Not silent—cushioned, like sound had been wrapped in cloth.

Ezra set the recorder.

Two minutes passed. When it beeped, his thumbs flew. Three recordings lined up on his screen—waveforms like seismographs.

Two of them had jagged breath-gaps: normal.

The third—this one—was smooth. Too smooth.

Ezra’s eyes gleamed with sharp fear. “The center is here. The pocket’s strongest right here. But not exactly on the pavement—it’s… misaligned. Half a foot off, maybe.”

“Good,” Callen said.

“Good?” Lira turned to him. “That’s your idea of good?”

“It means he’s close.”

They stepped forward.

The houses formed a perfect ring. Every mailbox showed the number 14. Lira blinked. The numbers didn’t change.

“I hate this,” she muttered.

“Fair,” Ezra said.

A wind chime hung still. A sprinkler clicked dryly. A bicycle lay on its side, card fluttering in the spokes, but the wheel never moved.

The sun slid out from behind a cloud.

The air didn’t get warmer.

“Ryke?” Lira called. Hope was a habit she couldn’t kill. “If you can hear us—”

“Here,” said the voice.

It came from everywhere. Too clear. No breath. No background.

Ezra moved fast, his hand shooting out. “Don’t move toward it. Remember—the voice is the bait.”

“I’m not,” Lira said. She turned to him. “Can we… answer it?”

Ezra thought, fast and dangerous. “If we match it perfectly, we agree—and the pocket stays shut. But if we copy it wrong—same rhythm, different weight—we might break its pattern. Force the door.”

“Like singing off-key on purpose,” Lira said.

“Exactly.”

Callen stepped between her and the invisible center. He didn’t touch her, but his presence was a column, holding space.

“If you answer,” he said, “it will answer back. And it will not be patient if you hesitate.”

“I won’t,” she said.

Ezra reached into his satchel and pulled out the tarnished fragment they’d taken from the crow’s beak two nights ago.

“Part of the bell’s clapper,” he said. “It’ll give us the clearest sound.”

Lira took it. The metal was freezing. Heavier than it looked. Like it carried weight not measured in grams.

“Okay,” Ezra said. “Bell’s rhythm was: heavy… pause… heavy. Last night, two in a row. We keep the pause, change the weight—especially the last one. Just enough wrongness to confuse it.”

Callen began counting, low and steady. “In… two… three. Out… two… three.”

Lira followed the rhythm. Her heartbeat started to sync.

She raised the clapper fragment.

Ezra crouched beside her, phone screen glowing. “I’ll loop the sound. Each echo will bounce back—wrong, on purpose.”

“And the echo pisses it off,” she said.

“Hopefully.”

Callen’s voice cut through again. “If it answers… don’t believe how close it sounds. That’s not the same as truth.”

“I know,” Lira said, though she wasn’t sure.

Ezra nodded. “Three taps, then two. First pause normal. Second pause—longer. Just a sliver.”

Callen counted. “In… two… three. Out… two… three.”

Lira struck the bench rail:

Tap. Tap. Tap.
 Tap. Tap.
  (Pause—just a fraction too long.)

The sound rang out—sharp and wrong. Ezra hit loop.

The first echo came back: warped, like a mirror melted at the edges.

The second echo rippled the pavement beneath them.

The third made the air bend, like heat shimmer over concrete.

Then came the voice.

“Lira.”

But this time—it had breath.

Messy. Real.

Lira’s breath caught. “Ryke?”

“I can’t—where are you—”

“Here! Move toward us—wait—just not—”

“Fantastic instructions,” Ezra muttered, but didn’t stop the loop.

Something pushed through the air. A ripple. A shape. A hood. A shoulder. Then all of Ryke—soaked hoodie, wide eyes, breath sharp and ragged.

Callen moved fast. “Do not touch him.”

Ryke collapsed to his knees, catching himself. His hands clutched the pavement like it might slip away.

He looked up, saw Lira, and laughed—a breathless, broken sound. “You came into the cul-de-sac from Narnia.”

Lira crouched beside him, close but careful. “Don’t move yet. Ezra?”

Ezra’s eyes were on the waveform graph. “We have to collapse it. One more wrong rhythm. Then cut the loop.”

Callen counted.

Lira tapped.

The air wrinkled. The pocket clung tight—

“Now,” Ezra said.

He hit stop.

The sound stilled.

The sameness broke.

And Ryke was back.