The doorway didn't glow.
It didn't hum.
It didn't shift or distort like the others.
It simply waited.
I stood before it longer than I meant to, hand hovering inches away. The corridor behind us remained unchanged—steady, obedient, normal. The kind of normal that feels artificial once you've seen what lies beyond it.
"This one's different," my companion said quietly.
I nodded. "It's not reacting."
The key in my pocket was still. No warmth. No warning.
That unsettled me more than any anomaly.
Usually, Anamnex responded when I noticed something wrong. A stretch of space. A skipped second. A rule bending just enough to catch my attention.
But this door?
It wasn't broken.
It was optional.
"Not all thresholds activate on perception alone," the voice said, emerging softly into the space.
"Some require consent."
I lowered my hand. "Consent to what?"
The door rippled faintly, like heat above asphalt.
"Change."
My companion shifted her weight. "So if you don't open it…"
"Then it remains," the voice replied.
"Unresolved."
A chill ran through me.
I'd always assumed anomalies forced themselves into existence. That they broke reality whether anyone wanted them to or not.
But this was different.
This was an invitation.
"What's on the other side?" I asked.
Silence.
Not refusal.
Consideration.
"A divergence," the voice said finally.
"A possibility that has not yet chosen a direction."
I glanced at my companion. "And your role?"
She exhaled slowly. "To stabilize the outcome. Whichever one you pick."
That settled heavily between us.
The building wasn't testing my awareness anymore.
It was testing my judgment.
I thought about all the anomalies I'd noticed without understanding. All the moments where I'd simply observed and moved on. Safe. Detached.
This door demanded more than that.
"If I open it," I said, "the world changes."
"Yes."
"And if I don't?"
"Then it changes later," the voice replied.
"Without guidance."
That was the worst answer it could have given.
I pressed my palm against the door.
Nothing happened.
For a heartbeat, I wondered if it had rejected me.
Then the surface warmed—just slightly—and a single word appeared beneath my hand, etched into the material like memory itself.
NOTICE.
The door hadn't opened.
But it had acknowledged me.
I pulled my hand away, heart racing.
"This isn't the moment," I said quietly.
My companion studied my face, then nodded. "You're choosing to wait."
"No," I corrected. "I'm choosing to prepare."
The word faded.
The door remained.
As we stepped back into the corridor, I felt it watching—not impatient, not angry.
Expectant.
Some doors didn't demand to be opened.
They waited for you to become someone who should.
And I wasn't there yet.