The knock still echoed when the fissure changed.
Not in size. Not in light. In sequence.
Arden Gate's loops—Kito climbing, Maren scolding, the baker half-singing—broke their rhythm for the briefest breath. Lio felt the square almost steady, the way a drunk finds balance on a rail. He thought maybe the door inside him had bought another moment.
Then time cracked.
It didn't stop. It didn't race forward. It didn't rewind. It folded, and the fold snapped shut like careless paper.
The town started repeating.
"Get down from there, Kito!" Maren's voice rang.
The boy laughed. "I never fall!"
The baker cursed at his oven and hummed off-key.
The ribbon tied itself.
Five minutes of living, tangled and small, played out exactly the same. Maren's scolding, Kito's laugh, the baker's half-song—every pause, every gesture, every mistake repeated like a broken reel.
Then the five minutes snapped shut again.
And started over.
"Get down from there, Kito!"
The boy laughed.
