Ezra Vale had walked this part of town a hundred times before. Same cracked sidewalks, same flickering streetlamps, same hollow quiet that came after midnight. But tonight, something was off.
There it was—wedged between two buildings he knew too well—a narrow street. Not an alley. Not a shortcut. A street, paved and lined with crooked lamp posts, stretching into a fog that seemed too thick for the season.
He froze. This wasn't here yesterday. It wasn't here ever.
The sign above it read: Hollow Turn. The paint looked fresh, the letters sharp, like it had been hammered in that very evening. Yet the iron pole it hung on was rusted through with decades of weather.
Ezra glanced over his shoulder. Empty sidewalks. Shuttered shops. Nobody around to confirm he wasn't losing his mind.
A breeze slid out from Hollow Turn, colder than the September night, carrying a sound that wasn't quite wind—more like a voice cut into static.
He should've walked away. He should've told himself fatigue was playing tricks. But Ezra Vale had never been good at ignoring the impossible.
So he stepped forward.
And the street swallowed the sound of the world behind him.