The handle lowered, a millimeter, perhaps two—and then stopped. As if the Hall itself had changed its mind. Lina held her breath, so long that a thin whistling formed in her ears. Beside her, Giulia gritted her teeth. Somewhere, water dripped from a defective pipe, steady and malevolently patient. The night smelled of metal.
Then the bolt inside audibly slid back into place—a dry, definitive sound. The door was closed again. No gap, no mercy.
"Told you," Giulia murmured, but her voice wasn't triumphant. Just tired. "This door isn't meant for you."
"Then who is it meant for?" Lina's hands were ice-cold; only now did she realize she was clutching the doorframe, as if she needed to hold the Hall in place to keep it from disappearing.
"For those who have already decided." Giulia tugged at Lina's sleeve. "Come. When they come out, you don't want to be standing right in front."
"I'm not leaving," Lina whispered. The whisper sounded louder than it should have.
