Authentic ambiance," Harry replied. "If the curses don't get you, the mildew might."
The man chuckled. "Ever get the feeling you've already done this before?"
"Repeatedly," Harry said, watching him too closely now.
The man wandered to the mirror and peered into it. "Huh. I look better in regret."
Harry didn't laugh. "Put that down."
The man did. Then winked. "You're fun."
"I'm not," Harry said.
"I'll be back," the man said as he left.
The door opened itself — against every ward Harry had ever set.
Harry stared long after he was gone.
The fifth-tone chime rang.
Different now. Deeper. Not louder — heavier, like sound descending a staircase from another world.
She appeared in the doorway without opening it. No footsteps. No warning. Just presence.
Eight, maybe nine. Freckled. Coat too large. She held a paper crane and a pocket watch that didn't tick. Her shoes were too clean for the city. Her eyes were the colour of forgotten things.
Harry didn't ask how she got in. He already knew better.
The air shifted when she entered — not a spell, not a ward-break — something older. The kind of awareness that lived in ritual and dream.